


I'm Not The One Who Suits You Most

by fishingboatblues



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 2 Stans AU, Dimension Travel, Improper Use of Hand Cream, Incest, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Oral Sex, Time Travel, Twincest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-10-07
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:30:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6322297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishingboatblues/pseuds/fishingboatblues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an accident during his and Ford’s journey through the Arctic Circle Stan finds himself suddenly thrust into the year 1971; the year before his and Ford’s relationship fell apart. The year before the science fair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is based on a sentence from this [song: ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ma1qZ2xxMhw)
>
>>   
> I can hear the words repeat:  
> "I'm not the one who suits you most."  
> And I know you're right, but I won't ever tell you so.  
> And every little thing that you ever said to me is in my head, running circles.  
> I can't even think, I can barely catch my breath. 

The second Stan realizes he’s trapped in the fucking past is the moment he knocks over a garbage can and insults at least ten different deities all in one breath. He feels terror knocking on his rib cage like an old friend just asking you to open the door and let them inside. He also feels the anger that quickly replaces the fear, it swirls inside his gut like red watercolor paint and he snarls like a feral dog as he thinks about it.

He wants to blame Ford — oh does he desperately want to blame his nerdy twin brother for his predicament — for being far too interested in studying the anomaly instead of closing the dang thing but, to be fair, he had warned him to be careful upon coming in contact with a left over byproduct of the rift the portal had created. And, to Stan's credit, he  _had_ been careful, tip toeing around the damn thing like it could grow teeth any minute and take a bite out of him. 

It was hardly Stanley’s, or Ford’s for that matter, fault that a monster had decided to take that time to drop down from the Arctic cave ceiling and start wagging its tongue around, hungrily looking at the both of them as if they were a three course meal. It was more than a little insulting to Stan, he's always liked to think of himself as more than just a piece of meat.

The monster itself had looked like nothing he'd ever seen before, not even in Gravity Falls or his brother's journals. It was an entirely new creature to both of them, he imagines had it not been so keen on taking a bite out of him and Ford his brother would've gotten his current journal out and would have started recording observational data and sketching the damn thing. As it stands however the only observational data Ford likely gleamed was that, whatever they were dealing with, was a hungry asshole with an acquired taste for human flesh.

The beast — or whatever his brother had no doubt nicknamed it inside of his own head —  had looked minutely like a mix between a snake and a dog and whatever eldritch horror had decided to bed these two species in a no doubt terrifying threesome. It'd had four legs and a long snake-like tail extending behind it and it's face had been entirely covered in fur, no discernible features aside from two reptilian nostrils and a large single eye that never seemed to open or move, not even behind the eyelid. 

Naturally he’d stepped up to the plate to deal with the weird ass snake, dog, _thing,_ that had been itching to suck the marrow from their bones. He'd sent the creature flying into the cave wall with an overzealous punch that had sent stalactites crashing to the floor and breaking upon impact, luckily he’d beaten it without too much difficulty aside from a scrape or two but the little bastard had managed — presumably in its death throes, although he hadn't gotten the best look at the thing — to send him careening like a beach umbrella on a windy day. Unfortunately, he’d landed too close to the void, his tip toes teetering on the edge and had been sucked in like a spider down the drain of a sink.

The fact he’d somehow ended up in Glass Shard Beach is the _real_ kicker here. He remembers how Ford had begun studying the temporal vacuum and his brother’s vague musings of what exactly a rip in time and space could do. He remembers hearing Ford coo over the damn thing, his pen scratching against the paper of his leather bound journal, last Stan remembers Ford had told him — eyes brimming with a concerned kind of excitement, the kind that Stan has come to know as danger incarnate by now — with no small amount of sci-fi technobabble that this thing could take you anywhere; past, present or future. Heck, maybe even to another dimension if you're an unlucky bastard.

Ford had stressed that direct contact was required for passage through the vacuum, travel could only be caused by the unlikely event that one of them decided to spring board into the unknown. By all accounts they should've been fine really but life, as always, has a habit of knocking them on their asses but boy isn’t that just the way with Stan? Implausible things always happen when he’s near, not all of them good, most of them being The Bad and The Ugly out of the sordid little trio that comprises his luck.

The first two days pass and he quickly runs out of money, which is saying something considering how dirt cheap everything used to be back in the seventies. But damn is he ever fortunate that the few scant bills he’d had on him hadn’t been properly examined, the cashier would’ve immediately realised something fishy was going on when he’d noticed they weren’t exactly from this time era. He should really count his lucky stars that most people in his home town are idiots with lead for brains; his past self probably included.

During those two days he’d spent his nights sleeping on the original Stan o’ War, it wasn't exactly what anyone would call comfy, but it was convenient. The perks of being a time traveler, especially one who’s lived through this crappy time era, is knowing all the best local haunts. Luckily for him it had been raining like hell those two days, he'd been able to avoid running into his and Ford's past selves, something he's grateful to have sidestepped; Stan's not exactly what you'd call delicate and there are some things — mainly time travel and holding newborns — that require a degree of delicacy that Stan is not well known for possessing.

He realizes during that space of time that Ford could take a while to find him, to save him, if doing so is even possible in the first place. He remembers how hard it was messing with the portal, figuring out all the odds and ends to it, he can't imagine how hard time travel is without the luxury of alien spaceship parts like his brother had used for the portal, let alone the fact that they were both out at sea when that bullshit had happened. The chances of Ford coming for him soon? Are as low as a contortionist playing limbo and boy does he love his brother —  in ways he _shouldn’t_ sometimes — he really does, but Ford’s timing isn’t worth shit; he’s always been either too early or too late, never quite managing somewhere in between.

So he does what every sensible adult does; he gets a job. The idea is laughable even to him, but he doesn’t have time to set up a criminal empire, a tourist trap or even a dodgy StanCo inspired enterprise, especially since he’d be fucking with the timeline something fierce. Sure, he’s not Ford but he’s seen enough movies to know that whilst in the past you gotta make as little waves as possible, minimize the butterflies you’re trampling on, so to speak.

He’s stupid, he won’t deny that, but he’s not so stupid that he doesn’t know fucking with the past is a bad idea.

Too bad the past has other plans for him.

* * *

After hours of considering and mental back and forth over his past identities and the ones he remembers most vividly going by he ultimately decides to go by the name Hal Forrester. It's the kind of name that sounds a little more reputable rolling off the old tongue, it's one of the last names he went by before his last run in with Rico and before he ever rolled up to Gravity Falls. He remembers using that name in a rare attempt to go straight, he'd gussied himself up and had tried to act like a regular guy; suffice to say it hadn't lasted long and before he'd known it he'd been running with gangs and criminals again, as it turns out trying to clean up your act doesn't put food in your belly or gas in your tank.

Using that familiar name he manages to make a pretty convincing fake ID and he gets a job at this old bait and tackle store near the beach front. The store is this green and brown monstrosity, it looks like one of those pine scented car air fresheners threw up on the building and that’s not even mentioning the horrible — and he means downright _evil_ — wooden paneling that is such a bitch to maintain it haunts his dreams.

The shop’s run by a gruff heavy set looking guy who has a chin hard enough to break rock, more hair on his chest than his scalp and a lisp that’s half annoying, half hilarious. He's rarely there honestly — always off delivering something to places out of town or some shit like that — and it's helpful in a way to Stan, gives him time alone to think about what he should do, gives him time to think about Ford and wonder if his brother will be here soon. It's a brief break away from pretending to be somebody else, a much needed one at that, but when his boss is there? Well, he rarely talks, preferring just to listen to the radio and do crossword puzzles than actually chat Stan's ear off. He’s actually a pretty decent guy for all Stan knows of him and the pay isn’t the worst he’s had, far from it actually; it's as good a job as any to keep him afloat until he can find his way back home. 

Things go relatively smoothly for a while, the most exciting thing he experiences during any given day is over zealous fishermen coming inside the shop and exaggerating about the size of their catches that day as they peruse his wares. Sometime he gets the occasional pet owner looking for stuff to feed their exotic beta or catfish or some shit like that but otherwise it's usually pretty quiet, however by the time it’s been a couple of weeks fate decides to squeeze his balls and fuck him sideways.

Three weeks have passed and that’s when he finally sees what he’s been avoiding for nearly a month now; he sees that recognisable tuft of brown hair scanning the merchandise, he recognises those loose hanging glasses and damn does he ever recognise that sweater vest combo that had so haunted his teenage years like some kind of nerdy, but sensual, ghost. Stanford Filbrick Pines, his brother, his, _temporally speaking_ , younger twin brother is in his store looking a little like a lost lamb.

He feels like he should've expected this to happen sooner or later, he'd been stupidly placing his bets on later — or well _never_ if he's being frank — and he knows now that he'd been woefully naive to ever have bet on anything less than complete anarchy. He should've prepared for this, he knows that, he should've braced himself for the possibility of encountering either himself or his family and he feels like a dumb ass for ignoring the possibility for so long. 

He clenches his fist at his side and wonders to himself — not for the first time — why his luck is so fucking poor, why Lady Luck seems so ready to piss in his cereal every goddamn morning. He shakes his head to himself, now is not the time to wonder about that kind of bullshit so instead he looks towards this younger version of Ford and gives him a long observing glance and frowns at what he sees.

To Stan's dismay the kid looks rattled and Stan knows all too well that wide eyed look behind that pair of familiar glasses, it’s that ‘I’m stretching my eyes as wide as I can so I don’t start crying’ look. He’d soothed a lot of those looks back in the day and, to his own chagrin, in his mean moments caused more than a few of them too.

He grips the mop in his hand strong enough to hurt and bites his lip hard enough to get a taste of iron on the tip of his tongue. He can’t interfere, he won’t interfere, you couldn’t pay him to get involved with…whatever is going on with Sixer Lite, or so he’s taking to calling him in his own head.

He tells himself all this and even he knows how unconvincing his internal mantra sounds but before he can tell himself anymore —  or find a way to scurry sneakily into the stockroom to avoid interaction entirely —  a sudden crash near where he’d left the other Ford startles him and attracts his attention. His eyes widen and he curses under his breath, Stanford’s looking worse for wear and his eyes are wet as he desperately tries to pick up the lures he’s accidentally knocked over in his turmoil.

Stan sighs and stills himself for the potential shit storm he’ll hear from Ford later and, against his better judgement, he places the mop against the wall and saddles on up to Sixer Lite. He never was one for making good decisions when it came to a Ford in need and now is, as always, no different.

With surprisingly good peripheral vision for someone wearing glasses Ford notices his arrival immediately. “Sorry!” He exclaims, trying to grab ten or so lures at once, sure he’s got a bigger grip than most people but even Sixer can’t carry that much, even Stan knows that.

And Stan is immediately proven correct as a couple of lures fall from Sixer’s hands onto the floor, onto the same wooden panelling that Stanley considers a major bitch to clean. “Sorry, I’m _so_ sorry.” He apologises frantically. “I didn’t mean-”

Ford looks flighty and maybe even a little scared of him? He’s probably just waiting to be chastised and kicked out — and possibly banned —  from his shop. But that doesn’t come as much of a surprise to Stan, he does look enough like their father to give anyone pause and god did they both know how angry Pa could get. To see that kind of physical similarity in a storekeeper must be a little intimidating, especially if you’re already feeling a little off your game. He only hopes his maroon beanie, Rapunzel-esque silver mullet and half tied green apron kill that image a little and make him seem at least half way approachable.

Stanley rolls his eyes. “Don’t worry about it…kid.” He says, the word ‘kid’ feeling weird and sand papery in his mouth. He’s never associated Ford with that word before, sure geek and nerd and other related words had often filled his mind and fled his tongue but never kid, they’d always been the same age after all. But staring at this younger version cinches it, this Sixer is definitely a teen and it’s obvious in the way he flails that he possesses all the awkwardness that comes with that.

“I-I can pay for, for any damages-” He babbles and it’s so _weird_ for Stan to hear, he hadn’t really realised how used he had gotten to his brother’s — his real brother the one in 2012 hopefully figuring out a way to fix this mess —  mostly calm and confident demeanor. Seeing Ford, heck even a younger version of him, like this is…odd, not unpleasant as it’s actually kind of endearing when he really thinks about it, just _odd_.

He shakes his head and cuts him off, reaching down to pick up the remainder of the stock.  “Nothing looks broken.” He tells Ford who seems to settle at that. “You alright?” He asks in a way that must seem nonchalant, but internally he’s kind of screaming.

Stan’s entire being is in state of emotional freefall; he’s a mix of concerned for Ford and terrified for himself, terrified at the prospect of fucking time up completely. Just asking this simple question feels like he’s treading into dangerous waters, whereas he should’ve just hedged his bets and stayed out of it.

“I’m fine.” Ford remarks, voice a little shifty and eyes averted; the telltale mark of a lie so badly, and obviously, phrased.

He frowns then and knows it’s too late when he finally gets a glimpse of Ford’s face; there right on his left cheek is a quickly forming bruise, probably not even an hour old, and only one name comes to mind; Crampelter. He grits his teeth and dammit if he isn’t already planning to fuck himself over and do something risky and impulsive, he can already tell he’s going to do something he knows he shouldn’t.

He can almost see it now, before his very eyes there goes one butterfly, twisted and crushed underneath his heel, yet he doesn’t even feel too bad about that little fact.

“I _doubt_ that.” He says with more bite than is probably warranted from someone who is supposed to be a complete and utter stranger, it hardly matters though; Ford's unlikely to jump straight to time travel as being the reason for some random dude's sudden interest in his welfare. “I mean, kid, I know I really shouldn’t get involved but…” He pauses for dramatic effect, really trying to sell the whole ‘concerned shopkeeper spiel.’ “I really _hate_ bullies.”

It surprises Stan that his words have more truth in them than he had probably been meaning to give away, but he lets that realisation slide like water off a duck’s back; it’s not like he can take it back, or rephrase it, now anyhow.

Ford frowns and looks like he wants to protest Stan’s obvious assumption, Stan’s right, of course he is, but Ford never liked being caught out. He opens his mouth as if to object to Stan’s words but he beats him to the punch.

“If you really want to get even, kid, I got a few pointers.” He tells him; tone conspiratorial, hand cupping his own cheek to hide his lips from prying eyes and his voice is low, barely even a whisper.

Ford looks up at him; he’s all long eyelashes, wild hair and slightly ruddy cheeks and Stan has to gulp a shaky breath back down and tell himself in no uncertain terms; _he’s not for you._

It's a truth he should know with all of himself by now but it's not a truth a guy gets used to, no matter how many tells himself, no matter if Ford is young or old, it's a truth that never truly manages to sink in. He may not be for him but his heart has always liked to believe and hope otherwise. 

Ford blinks at him. “I, well.” Ford begins awkwardly, obviously unsure as how to respond. Ford’s never been _this_ nervous in all of Stan’s memory, which might be more than a little shoddy given the amnesia and memory gun thing but still; it’s _weird_ , but Stan’s willing to chalk it up to extenuating circumstances. “I’m listening.” Ford continues, voice slightly more sure than before.

Stan gives this younger version of his brother a cocky grin. “See, kid, fighting isn’t always the way to go and, no offence, you don’t look like you’ve got the best of chances when it comes to throwing a punch.” _At least not yet anyway_ , his mind supplies as he dimly remembers the feeling of Ford’s fist hitting his cheek as he exited the portal. “To me you look like a smart guy and that kinda thing has its perks. If you can’t kick a guy’s ass get him back in other ways; hit him where it hurts, take something he loves and mess with it a little. Show him you ain’t to be messed with.”

As he tells Ford this his mind wanders to Carla and that damn hippy Thistle Down. She had been the second person in his life he had really loved, despite popular opinion it is possible to be in love with more than one person at time. Sure, his feelings for her had been less potent than the ones he had always felt for Ford, but that in no way made them less real or invalidated them or _whatever_.

All that really mattered was that in the end he’d gotten that hippy back just a little, enough to have soothed that aching part inside of him, and besides that jerk’s car totally had it coming. At the very least he’s glad he got something from that experience, at least enough to base some guidance on it.

“I, uh, well.” Poindexter babbles a little and rubs nervously at the back of his neck. “Thank you for that advice…I’ll take it under consideration.” He says all low and serious like Stan just asked him to take a hit out on the mob.

Before Stan can really stop himself his palm is already making itself a perch on Ford’s shoulder, hand patting Sixer Lite all friendly like. “Try and take it easy, kid, just give that asshole a piece of your mind for this old man, yeah?”

Ford seems to absorb those words, countenance determined and eyes considering. Stanley raises an eyebrow as their eyes lock and, to his surprise and confusion, Ford blushes and scrambles towards the exit. Stan rolls his eyes when he comes back in, having forgotten to put back nearly half the lures he’d been meaning to shelf. He chuckles at that; what a classic Sixer move.

Stan grins a little, all dentures and mischievous promise as Sixer Lite, as an afterthought, eyes all the fishing lures for a second before grabbing a blue and yellow stripped one. Stanford’s hand shakes a little, his six fingers a tad sweaty as he pushes a ten-dollar bill into Stan’s palm before scuttling away all embarrassed.

He doesn’t even stay long enough to collect his change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER EDITED 6TH NOV 2017.


	2. Chapter 2

Nearly a week goes by without incident, time spent tending the store is monotonous and uneventful but ultimately he sees no sign of Ford coming back. It’s a weight off his shoulders knowing he’s not going to have to walk that temporal tightrope, but somehow it leaves part of him ill at ease.

That part of Stan has him constantly looking over his shoulder for just a hint of wild brown hair, searching around wildly for just a whiff of that strawberry-cream smelling conditioner Ford had used back when they were kids. That part of Stan is just itching to see Ford, itching to hear that cute little teen voice wobble and crack, it feels like he’d somehow forgotten how cute his brother had been.

It’s thoughts like that he has to shut down like an illegal smuggling ring. _Sure_ ; it’s Ford he’s talking about, Mr-The-Brother-I’ve-Been-In-Love-With-My-Whole-Life. But it’s not the same, this is a younger Ford and he is an old man. Ford’s what; sixteen, seventeen, here? And sure Stan’s done numerous of fucked up things in his time but lusting after a younger -is he even legal?-  version of his brother is not something he wants on his spiritual rap sheet.

In any case a week has nearly gone by and there’s no sign of Ford, his future self or otherwise. Against his better judgment he decides to increase his work schedule, get a little extra green flowing into those pockets of his, a little spending money couldn’t hurt, right? He still doesn’t know how long it’s gonna be until Sixer, _his_ Sixer, shows up and rescues him all white knight style, until then he’s gotta keep paying for that motel room of his.

He decides to start offering sailing lessons, his boss, a guy he now knows is called Jared, has let him use his own personal boat, for a small percentage of the profits, of course. It’s a good gig, the more Stan thinks about it and in a seaside down like this? It’s a freaking goldmine just waiting to be tapped, heck Glass Shard Beach had practically _run on_ the tourist trade back in his day, and here he was ready and willing to separate those looking to learn the nautical arts from their hard earned cash.

It was a match made in heaven really, or it would’ve been had he not ended up hitting the mother of all snags, some might even call it the Titanic of snags; his brother.

He just shows up one day at the docking bay, hair tied back with a blue bobble Stan remembers vaguely belongs to their mother, a set of casual clothes; that he probably, _definitely_ if the red tank top is any indication, borrowed from younger Stan’s side of the closet. Atop his clothes is a life vest already firmly affixed to him; Ford doesn’t fuck around, he clearly came here with business in mind.

Stan, however, nearly trips on his ass and curses underneath his breath, his eyes are wide as he has to gulp down both his annoyance and the desire to grab his brother by the hair and... He shakes his head like a wet dog and levels his brother with a patented Grumpy Old Man look. “What you doing here, kid?” He asks, voice gruff as he tries to busy himself; hauling in his catch of the day.

He’d actually spent the whole afternoon out on the seas, using the skills he’d cultivated out in the Arctic Ocean to catch more than a dozen fish. A guy’s gotta eat after all and besides there’s a good market stall down near the pier that’ll buy up any extra fish he doesn’t take home. In any case he’s more than a little surprised Sixer Lite had managed to find him, given Stan’s chaotic life schedule.

Ford shuffles a little on his feet, awkward and more than a little uncomfortable looking.

Several questions run through Stan’s head; ‘why is he here? Why is he dressed like that?’ And ‘oh god why does the world enjoy fucking with me so much’, being chief among them.

“I-I saw your notice on the beach bulletin board.” Ford explained, hands in his pockets and his head titled away. Classic defensive stance for Sixer, he always hides his hands when he feels uncomfortable in some way; it’s something even his older self hasn’t entirely grown out of, and probably never will. “I was hoping I could hire your services.”

Well, damn, wasn’t Stan’s day just looking like an apocalyptic adventure of epic proportions? Stan sighs and slings the net over the side of the boat, tying it to a small knob of wood on the side. He looks at Sixer Lite then, taking him in with assessing eyes; he looks nervous, the sweaty kind of nervous, he wouldn’t be surprised if Sixer’s palms are damp inside his pockets.

He takes a moment to ponder the situation; here Sixer is itching to get his hands on some out at sea action, here Sixer is dressed like a safety conscious nerd, which is hilarious to him when one considers how out of character that is for him. He looks like a guy who came over with the intention to impress and Stan can’t quite bring himself to be displeased with the notion.

“You sure, kid?” He questions, a hand on his hip as he looks down at Ford over the top of his glasses, it’s a pointed look too, almost condescending in the way his gaze levels on him. Stan knows this particular expression all too well, he’s seen it enough to replicate it just a little; it was a look their father had favoured throughout their childhood, and ultimately a look his Sixer used only when he thought Stan at his most ridiculous. “The sea’s a harsh lady, kid, and besides shouldn’t you be studying? Or trying to hit it off with some girls or whatever or, you know, something weedy nerds do at your age.”

Stan knows he’s being a jackass; he knows the way he phrases his words is more than a little off putting, it’s intentional and it comes to him with accustomed ease, this casual antagonism he means; he doesn’t like it but it’s a necessary evil. He doesn’t enjoy the way Ford’s lip curls and the way his brows furrow; it’s not like he _likes_ being an asshole, but he can’t have Sixer Lite sniffing around him like an over enthusiastic puppy, like a cat rubbing up against his leg all affectionately. 

If the future hadn’t been on the line he probably wouldn’t have minded the shy glances this version of his brother was sending his way, wouldn’t have minded the way he’s cheeks tinged red whenever Stan locked eyes with him. He wouldn’t have minded, heck he probably would’ve _enjoyed_ all that if he’s honest, but for now it’s just an inconvenient pain in his ass. An inconvenient pain in his ass, that if he’s not careful could not only fuck with the timeline but tip Ford off to his…feelings.

He’s done his best throughout his life to keep his feelings for Ford on lock down, to keep ‘em bound in knots inside his chest, to keep them hidden from Ford’s piercing gaze and prying eyes. He knows Ford doesn’t feel the same, I mean, who _would_? Stan’s…not, he’s not what you’d call a good man, he’s done a lot of shit, shit he regrets right down to his bone. But the worse part of it is the things he’s forgotten how to regret, the things he’s grown apathetic towards caring about.

Ford straightens up at his words, back a little less slouched and shoulders standing tall and at attention. He looks a tad more resolute in his decision as he pushes the bridge of his glasses up with a gentle index finger. “I’ve already finished all the assigned material for this week, a-and, uh, besides girls don’t really like me.” He says waving one of his hands as an offhand explanation, Sixer Lite’s eyes widen when he notices Stan’s lack of expression.

Stan can’t help the teasing leer that stretches across his lips. “Oh?” He questions, tone amused. He leans back, shoulders resting on the hull as he raises a set of suggestive eyebrows Ford’s way “Kid, if anything I’d think that’d give ‘em _more_ of a reason to like you, _if you know what I mean_.” He continues, throwing caution to the wind he decides to throw in a saucy little wink and he laughs when he sees Ford’s face colour.

Despite Sixer’s clearly naïve and nerdy tendencies he clearly _does_ know what Stan means and that makes the tease just a little be more tantalizing; when he’s gets back he definitely going tease his Ford about this whole conversation, he’s never been one to miss an opportunity like this.

Younger Ford simply coughs into his hand, obviously trying to clear his throat and will the blood congregating in his face back down; Stan’s nowhere near generous enough to lie and say he’s succeeding much with that action plan.

“Anyway.” Ford begins, shuffling awkwardly until he’s close to the boat. “Are you free for a lesson now or…?”

Stan weighs his options up in the air; 1. He could say he isn’t, but that runs the risk of Sixer coming back until he finally gets what he wants; he’s always been a persistent asshole when it comes to pretty much _anything_ he decides to try his hand at. Or he can go with the controversial, bat shit insane, idea of 2. Take Ford’s cash, take him out on that boat and actually _teach_ Ford something for once. Normally right about now is when Stan would find some kind of loophole to finesse his way through, but the only loophole he can see is the noose currently winding its way around his own neck.

He’s stuck between a rock and a _hah_ , hard place. His brother, ever the overachiever, has managed to back him up against a damn wall, he’s got him trapped, pinned and caught just by his own innocuous whims. Stan would be impressed by the sheer weirdness and inconceivability of the situation if it weren’t so damn inconvenient for him. Really though, he should be used to these odd little curveballs the universe keeps sending his way, he should be used to the road bumps that keep coming up to meet his feet; it’s about time he buckled up, about time he stepped up to the plate and dealt with the problem head on.

Oh, he can practically _feel_ deep in his bones how much he’s going to regret this, can practically taste just how bad this is going to go in the air. He knows a bad decision when he sees it; heck his whole life thus far is pretty much a montage of those kind of decisions, but as always with Stan once he makes a choice he charges head long at it and nothing can deter him from his course.

“I’m free, kid. Got the whole afternoon wide open, and with your getup I take it you were hoping on heading out today and getting your first taste, yeah?”

Ford nods but then frowns suddenly enough to give Stan whiplash. “Ah, I’d prefer if you didn’t call me ‘kid’.”

Stan raises an eyebrow at that, a silver brow that rises so far it descends into his own thinning hairline. “Oh?” He questions, voice lilting. “You’d rather me call you ‘boy’ then?” Stan asks, a smug teasing grin on his lips and his arms are crossed in front of his chest as he sends Sixer a look he hopes is unreadable.

He doesn’t mean to be flirty, he really doesn’t mean to sound flirtatious as fuck. It’s just…natural, all these remarks, whether he actively intends them or not, they just seem so natural on the tip of his tongue.

His words immediately gain a reaction as Ford splutters, stutters and gesticulates awkwardly whilst saying words at a breakneck speed Stan doesn’t really have the capacity to understand. A moment passes by in tense silence as Poindexter calms down; it takes a couple moments of panting breath but he does calm down and pull himself together.  In end the only thing that betrays his nervous brother is a blush lingering on his cheeks and the way he twirls and wrings his hands together.

The whole tirade gains an eyebrow raise of its own, internally he makes a mental note of this reaction and he decides to file it away for later; he’s not entirely sure what _that_ was all about and he might never know the full details here, but who knows? It might come in handy someday. Don’t let it be said that Stanley Pines is a reckless fool who never plans for anything, the former may be true but the latter isn’t, and even when it is it’s a selective occasional kind of truth.

“I’d, uh, rather if you’d just call me by my name.” Sixer Lite finally says, one of his hands messily running through his hair; like he’s always done when thinking really hard about something. He outstretches a hand towards Stan, like he’s finally, _finally_ just remembered proper social decorum. “I’m Stanford, Stanford Pines.”

He takes Ford’s hand and is immediately surprised by the softness, damn he’d forgotten how few scars Poindexter’d had as a teen. Despite hating his own hands Ford’s always been careful with them, delicate with them enough to moisturize them every other night or so, if Stanley is remembering correctly that is. In truth Stanley recalls their bedroom never being without _at least_ one bottle of moisturizer on the bedside table, it’s a fact he recalls being more than a little helpful for many of his nights spent hard, shaking and thinking of just reaching up and _touching_ the one person he’s always been craving.

If Sixer had ever known his sacred hand cream, the one he remembers Ford used to spend more than a pretty penny on, had been used for getting his brother off, _more_ than once, in the dead of night at the very least he’d been polite, or too embarrassed, enough to keep quiet throughout the entirety of their lives. If he’s honest, even to this day he still associates a good old self session with the smell of mint and the occasional hint of citrus; it’s probably the reason he’s not allowed back at that one air freshener store in Maine.

 He shakes Ford’s hand and just takes a second to…marvel, heck, his skin is so smooth that Stanley could probably, if he wanted to, do an off the cuff palm reading just by touch alone. Applying a little more pressure than needed he shakes Ford’s hand, all friendly and as vigorous as Stan’s ever been. What catches Stan off guard, however, is the feel of Ford’s pulse jumping against his fingertips; huh, weird?

“The name’s Hal Forrester.” Stan lies. “And for the next two hours I own your ass, ki- _Stanford_. Better prepare yourself, Fordsy, ‘cause are you _ever_ in for the ride of your life.”

* * *

 

Ford doesn't really get much hands on experience, as it turns out. Stan mostly spends his time filling up Ford's little head with glossary information, shit about the tides, how to navigate by the stars and other stuff like that. He also hands him a fishing rod and they just sit on the deck, rod in hand and staring out at the sea. It's kind of nice actually; companionable even, it makes Stan want to try his luck a little, in both innocent and... less than innocent ways.

In the end Stan merely shrugs to himself, reaches out towards the cooler sitting on the side and grabs a beer which, if he's honest, is probably not the best showing of being a 'responsible and professional' adult he has ever made of himself. For the hell of it he presses the can to the uncovered skin of Ford's arm, the reaction is immediate as Ford gives an embarrassingly girly squeal, one that Stan is going to remember until the moment he dies, and practically jumps out of his seat and into the ocean.

For five minutes straight the only thing either of them can hear is the sound of rushing waves and Stan's obnoxious laugh creating sound pollution. The glare Sixer Lite sticks him with is more than worth the potential timeline fuckage, is more than worth all the awkwardness and fear ticking like a time bomb in the back of his head. If Stan can have just one thing out of this whole time travel experience it would be this; a moment of uncomplicated companionship, nothing more and nothing less, but even so that's probably greedier than he has any right to be. But it's Stan so he takes what he can get for as long as he can get it.

“So, Stanford...” Stan begins, his words punctuated by the fizz and pop of opening his beer. His eyes fixate on the sun making its way down in the sky; it’s a nice sunset as far as he’s concerned, all oranges, yellows and radiant reds. They all swirl together like a watercolor painting and shade the sky in a warm heady way that has him chasing the taste of salt in the air and taste of honeyed beer lingering on his tongue.

Stanford sits to his left, hair windswept and cheeks red from what Stan’s sure is a mixture of reasons. An old man and a teenager, lounging out at sea; what a pair they must make. Chugging down enough to give him a little extra courage, Stan continues.  "You ever get that guy back for punching you?"

For such a genius Ford looks oddly oblivious for a couple of seconds until suddenly his eyes widen. "Oh!" He exclaims, like a light bulb going off in his head. He places his fishing rod down, to the side and begins twiddling with his hands, playing with his extra fingers almost mindlessly. “I broke the lock on his bike.”

Stanley blinks blankly at that. “What?”

“I, uh, I broke the lock on his bike and well…the neighborhood took care of the rest.”

Stan turns to look at him head on, expression incredulous as he really takes this information in. “You-” He starts, his voice gravelly and a little hoarse with surprised…and maybe a little something else. “-you mean to tell me you lock picked some asshole’s bike and sorta, _maybe_ , facilitated i-in, in velocipede theft?!”

Ford gives a nervous chuckle and rubs at the back of his neck with one hand. “Well, if anything I, uh, was merely an accessory.” He replies. “Don’t tell anyone, please?”

Stan chuckles hard and loud, he mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key. “My lips are sealed and your secret is safe with me, pal.” He laughs again, amused, and a little proud, at the idea of his straight laced brother getting his own back on their childhood bully. “Did you at least use a set of gloves, kid?”

The look Ford levels him with next is _classic_ , it’s so amazing it steals his breath and has him chuckling again. The look Ford levels him with is a sassy ‘I’m hardly an amateur’ expression and it just, it _tickles_ Stan something fierce. “I made sure to use a set of regular gloves instead of the homemade ones I have stashed away in my draw. So, even if someone does manage to somehow get hand imprints off of the lock, and I doubt they will, they’ll only see a pair of five fingered hands.”

Stan takes a second to be, well, impressed isn’t the word. More like proud? He takes a second to be proud of his brother, to be proud of Ford’s initiative. Heck, he’s even a little proud of the way he thought to cover his tracks.

“You’ve got some serious _balls_ , Stanford.” He tells him and lets a little awe into his voice, it’s probably a little healthy for Ford to get in some almost father figure type of approval. That type of thing leads to like an approved self-esteem, right? He grabs another beer from the cooler and to Stanford’s surprise hands it to him. “Just for that I’m letting you have a beer. Drink up kid; it’s the only one you’re gonna get from me.”

Ford blinks at him, all unsure and shaking hands as he takes Stan’s offering. “Ah, this is. I’m seventeen.” He explains as he cradles, but doesn’t open, the beer in his hands. “This is, well, this is actually kind of illegal. By which I mean _definitely_.”

Stan rolls his eyes and takes a swig, he’s almost finished his own beer now. “And lock picking _isn’t_?” He asks with a smug grin and a pointed eyebrow raise. He gives Sixer Lite a brief pat on the back. “Be a rebel!” He exclaims. “You deserve it, and besides; everything’s legal when there’s no cops around.”

Ford doesn’t say anything but the click of the aluminum can being opened and the fizz of beer frothing against the metal rim say enough.  “Thank you-” He says cautiously before taking his first sip.

“Oh, kid I wouldn’t thank me if I were you.” Stan says and he’s right; because as soon as the beer touches Ford’s tongue he’s already spitting it back up. Stan chuckles. “Told ya so.”

Stanford wipes the back of his hand over his mouth and stares down at the drink with disgust. “That’s revolting.”

“What were you expecting, kid?”

Ford just shrugs. “I’d always thought it would taste more…nice?” His arm does a wide sweeping motion. “-just _something_ , to, to explain why people enjoy drinking so much.”

Stan rolls his eyes fondly at that. “Oh, you sweet, naïve, thing; nobody, at least nobody I know, drinks for the _taste_. You drink for the buzz and that’s it really.”

“That seems kind of boring actually.” Sixer Lite remarks, turning the beer can this way and that as if observing it. “I can’t say I really see the appeal.”

Stan chuckles a little and just turns to Ford, Stan's eyes are a touch fond as the sun goes down behind him, Stan's hair flaps about in the breeze and is barely a starlight whisper against his skin. He can’t imagine what Sixer sees when he looks at him, but he looks a little shocked and all Stan can do is smile at him and take a sip. “The appeal?” He questions with a hint of a shrug. “Mostly comes with the company; if you drink with the right people it can be nice.”

“O-oh, I, I see.” Ford says and spares a look down at the beer thoughtfully, Stan desperately hopes Ford’s thinking of him, well the younger him anyway. To Stan’s surprise he puts the can back up towards his lips and begins to drink, his eyes averted away from Stan.

The trip out to sea doesn’t last much longer after that; having Ford beside him is a tease when sober, but when a little buzzed out? It’s an all-out _temptation_ and he’s never been all too good at resisting his impulses when _sober_ , when tipsy though? It’s a whole other ball game, one Stan knows that if he isn’t careful he’s bound to lose.

Against his better judgement, and jeez does that ever seem to be the running theme here, he walks Ford back to Pines Pawns. Seeing his Mom’s phone physic sign piercing through the dark makes his stomach twist in knots, god how long has it been since she died? He shakes his head to himself and does his best not to think of it, now that the buzz is wearing off he’s starting to feel a little sappy.

Ford stands before his front door and he looks at Stan with an unreadable expression Stan’s never really seen before. “You, uh, you really didn’t have to walk me home, you know.”

“What kinda business man would I be if I let my clients walk off unchaperoned through the dark, huh? A pretty piss poor one, if I don’t say so myself!”

At Stan’s words Ford’s eyes suddenly widen as if just remembering something. “Oh shi- _shoot_ I almost forgot to pay you!” He exclaims, reaching for his wallet.

Stan pointedly shakes his head. “Ah, don’t worry about it, kid. This lesson is on the house and besides you’ll wanna save your cash for next time; I don’t come cheap, Stanford, I don’t come cheap.”

“You mean…you’ll really teach me more?” Stanford questions, his hands fidgeting amongst themselves and his face is hopeful but scared at the same time.

Stan grins, all lopsided and roguishly charming. “I’ll teach ya for as long as you want, pal.” He tells him before giving a pointed look to the door. “Anyhow I think it’s time you turned in for bed, don’t want an earful from your parents, ‘specially if they find out I gave you that beer.”

Ford laughs, a hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. He looks up at Stan through his lashes, his whole body language reads as ‘off’ to Stan, it reads wrong; Stan’s picking up signals that just, just _can’t_ be there. Stan bites his lip and scuffs at the ground with his shoe.

“I suppose you’re right.” Ford replies. “I’ll see you soon, I guess, Mr Forrester?”

Stan chuckles and gives a dismissive wave as he moves away to lean on the street lamp. “Call me Hal.” He says with maybe a little more feeling in his voice than he means to let slip.

“Goodnight Mr For- uh, _Hal_.” Ford says before unlocking the door with his key and going inside, leaving Stan alone leaning on the streetlamp outside.

Stan sighs and sends a weary look skyward. “Goodnight, Sixer.” He remarks to himself, barely even a whisper. It doesn’t take long to get back to his motel and when he does he quickly settles down for sleep; that night he sleeps better than he has done in weeks, some part of himself feeling lighter than it has done in years.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filler porn with a side dash of emotions, realisations and maybe some slight plot elements. But I wouldn't hold out too much hope on the latter.

The moment Ford realizes something is seriously, extremely, _utterly_ wrong is when he finds himself getting ready for bed but having zero motivation to sleep. Instead he just lies there on the top bunk, the room silent from all but Stanley’s muffled snores and the rain hitting the sidewalk outisde.

He does his best not to think of Stanley most days, he fails more often than not. It’s hard not to think about someone he’s craves so deeply for, it’s hard not to think about the person who he’s been beside his whole life. He was born with Stan, conceived with Stan, it’s wrong to love him the way he does, it should disgust him, but as always with these things there is _always_ a ‘but’.

He’s attracted to Stanley; has been for he doesn’t know how long. It was only weeks ago that he realised his feelings for his brother; it had been during the height of summer vacation, during one of the very few days they would take time out from working on the Stan o’ War. The day had been a calm affair, just an afternoon of peaceful relaxation as they had done their best to stave off the summer heat, in the end they had fallen asleep listening to their favourite albums. Later he had woken up to feeling of Stan’s fingers in his hair and a new realisation, and appreciation for his brother, burning low in his gut.

Ever since that day Stanley has been a tantalizing tease but a touch away from destroying him completely. To be in love is beautiful and exciting, that Ford will admit, but the longing and desire come with downsides he is all too aware of.

One of those downsides being that puberty likes to make itself known. Puberty, up until this realisation, had never been much of a problem for him. Sure, he was prone to the sudden and inexplicable, which now that he thinks about it may not be so inexplicable after all, erections. But until that point his hormonal needs had stayed under lock and key, it was as if Stanley had somehow messed with his brain chemistry, as if his attraction towards him had unearthed parts of him he didn’t realise existed.

Ford groans quietly to himself as he tosses and turns on the top bunk, sleep being evasive and his body beginning to stir to life at thoughts of the boy just underneath him. He can feel his palms beginning to sweat, his heart beating a drummer’s pace inside his chest and, more importantly, his member twitching inside his boxers.

He gulps and considers going into the bathroom to take himself in hand and bring himself to a desperate orgasm, he considers how good it would feel to use some of the lubricant he knows Stan keeps hidden behind the lose panel of their ancient bathtub. He considers the decision for a couple of moments, but then when he tries to make a move to climb the ladder he remembers just how bone tired he is. He’d spent the day on the open sea, a feat more tiring than he had initially suspected, and the beer draining from his system probably doesn’t help in the way of fatigue.

Could he really chance it? Surely a deep sleeper like Stan would be able to sleep through anything, even the creaking of the bed springs, the rustling of Ford’s quilt, the sound of skin slapping against skin and that of Ford's desperate moans.

He’s done it before, but that was back before he had realised his feelings for Stan, back when he had been confident and at ease in their relationship. Now that he knows how he feels for his brother every little thing is tinged with anxiety, shaded with the fear he will be found out.

He bites his lip at the thought of Stan, the fear of discovery churning low in his stomach, becoming heady arousal instead. He sticks his head underneath the bed briefly, giving Stan a cursory look to make sure his brother is still fast asleep, but his heart stalls in his chest when he sees his brother’s head poking out from underneath the covers.

A rush of affection floods through him and a rush of lust as he feels himself drawn in by Stan’s charms. A part of him screams at him to go down there and just _touch_ , to just kiss his brother awake and tell him, _show_ him his feelings.

That part is vocal and lewd as it draws him in with images dark and seductive, with thoughts sensual and loving. That part of him begs for him to just give in, to just say ‘goodbye’ to the lies, to the forced denial and repression of his feelings, that part of him wants Stan so keenly it makes him sick with selfishness. Because his desires are just that; selfish and arrogant in nature, caring not for Stan’s own wants.

His nostrils flare as he leans back, his spine pressing against the old wood of the side board and his legs spreading languid and wide across a set of Superman sheets he and Stan own on a time share with one another.

His hands shake in the dark, trembling in time with the rain tapping a staccato against the glass pane of their window. His fingers curl underneath the waistband of his boxers with trepidation, he takes a deep breath as he pulls his boxers down to his knees, only letting it out when his member springs free from its prison made of fabric. He hisses as he feels want gripping him from head to toe, stealing his breath, common sense and all form of decency. This lust steals the air from his very lungs and turns it to steam on each exhale, he feels like a human tea kettle, exhaling steam and ready to scream at any moment.

He spreads his legs further and bites the back of his left hand to keep himself quiet, his other hand skirts delicately down his stomach and he bites down hard enough to taste iron on the tip of his tongue. His nails scratch at his skin and run briefly through his pubic hair before his fingers finally curl around his desire; the reaction is immediate as his hips thrust into his grip and his feet curl against the sheets.

A moan is muffled against his skin as he imagines that which he so rarely allows himself to consider. He imagines Stan splayed out before him, wanting eyes glancing at him over a bared shoulder, his head thrown back as Ford’s hand grips him by the hair and moves him, forces him into a rhythm not unlike the back and forth of a boat out at sea.

He imagines Stanley shaded by the orange of a setting summer sun, he imagines his brother’s soft skin underneath his fingertips, his meaty thighs resting atop his shoulders. He imagines his brother’s generous stomach resting in between them as his purple veined cock drips wet strokes of pre-ejaculate all over their skin.

The images leave him keening even as he reaches out a hand to fumble with his hand cream. He very rarely uses his hand cream for more than just adequate metacarpus maintenance, but ever so often when the bathroom seems too far way, or he’s worried Stan might notice Ford’s usage of his lubricant, he will pull out the bottle and spread some across the expanse of his fingers.

For a moment Ford considers what exactly he could do with those fingers, in many cases he would've inserted them inside himself, one by one until all he could think about was pleasure, until all he could think about was release.

But he knows he needs a hand free to silence himself, that and he would need to wash his hands afterwards which would entirely defeat the purpose of having stayed in bed. More importantly; what if he woke Stan half way to the bathroom? He can scarcely imagine how mortifying it would be being caught in the middle of the night covered in hand cream, his brother would never let him live down the shame.

He closes his eyes, content as the room begins to heat up, the cold air turning warm and heady as his movements become more focused. A hand is twisting on the head of his cock, wet with pre-come, hand cream and sweat whilst his other hand is fleshy and red inside his mouth, his wrist brushes his balls with every move and jerk of his hand, with every rhythmic squeeze and pulse.

He’s panting now, quiet as possible as he imagines spreading his legs on a bed big enough for two, as he imagines Stan’s gravelly voice whispering in his ear about all the things he’s going to do to him. He imagines Stan’s strong hand on the back of his neck, pushing him down and making him take it. Somehow his hand looks bigger, hairier and more wrinkled than in Ford’s usual fantasies and Ford’s own hand speeds up but suddenly halts when one question blares like a fog horn in his mind.

_Why isn’t Mr Forrester married?_

Realisation hits him head on like a speeding train and he almost comes at the thought of Hal Forrester, at the mere thought of the older man, the mere image his name paints in Ford’s mind.  His breath whooshes out of him as he engulfs his length in a rough squeeze hard enough to choke a man; the feeling of his hand clenching tightly around him is all it takes to assuage some of his arousal, to get his body back on side.

He finds himself blinking up at the ceiling, his cock throbbing inside his hand and his mind filling with dawning dread; he’d known he had felt a connection with the man, a natural curiosity towards him. Stanford had known he had found him intriguing and, upon spending time together, _pleasant_ if a little rough around the edges.

But attraction? He hadn’t realised, hadn’t noticed his school girlish reactions to the man, but he should have. Mr Forrester, no, _Hal,_ is more than a little similar to Stanley if only several decades older. However odd his attraction may seem it does make some semblance of sense, more sense than perhaps his own incestuous feelings for Stanley.

He groans to himself, some of it out of unfilled arousal, some of it out of annoyance at himself; he has a _type_ , oh god why did he have to have a type? Why couldn’t he just be _normal_ for a change and lust after someone his own age and _female_? But instead he’s weak and _wrong_ for lusting after men, lusting after men _better_ than him; they deserve better than Ford perverting their image inside his mind, they deserve better than Ford’s depraved desires. Yet, despite his wish for normalcy, he cannot stop himself from throbbing at the mere thought of them.

He shakes his head; now is not the time for personal reflection, he has school in the morning and the clock on the bedside table is clear and bright even through the darkened haze of the night; it’s _late_ , more so than he’s usually accustomed to.

He does his best to calm his mind, to focus on the task at hand. His inner Stanley laughs at the accidental joke and he rolls his eyes, indulging himself in a small amount of good humor even as he loosens his grip until his hand is but a whisper against his foreskin.

For a few minutes the only sounds that fill the room are that of his drawn out moans muffled and dying before they fully reach the air, and the sound of his balls slapping against his own ass as he rocks up into his fist. Every thrust feels like sweet torture, every thrust feels like unrequited lust given a physical tether to reality. Every thrust feels like an inch closer to being released from this harsh feeling coiling inside his gut, every sigh and moan feels like a step closer to pleasure he often tries to deny himself.

His hand jerks violently, _suddenly_ , as his member twitches wildly and forcefully. He almost screams when he finally comes into his hand, his ejaculate painting his fingers and stomach like a lewd splatter painting, like a perverted rendition of the stars in their galaxy. He barely has enough time to grab even a tissue before he hears the unmistakable sound of Stan’s voice.

“You alright?” His brother asks and Ford’s heart stills inside his chest and he almost chokes on.

Had Ford woken him up with his movements? Had he heard the sound of Ford taking himself in hand and getting off? Oh Tesla, he hopes not; he could only stand so much mortification during one night and his own realisations had maxed out his quota for embarrassment already.

“Y-yes?” He answers, sounding more unsure than he intended.

“I heard you thrashing around like a fish outta water, Sixer.” Stan clarifies, voice rough with what Ford imagines to be sleep. “You have a nightmare, Poindexter?”

And therein Stan presents a logical alternative to coming up with some halfhearted lie, all Ford has to do is say ‘yes’ and Stan’s own ability to reason will do most of the work, Stan being only half awake will do the rest.

“Uh, yes, t-that’s exactly what happened.” He lies, his own voice hoarse from his previous moans. He clenches the tissue tightly in his fist, hoping against all hope that Stan is far too sleepy to call him out on his lie.

“Was it that one about the alien body snatchers again? Or that classic public speaking dream with a side order of no underwear? ‘Cause we’ve all had _that_ dream once or twice before, though my version was, hah, probably _saucier_ that any version of yours.” Stan chuckles to himself before clicking his tongue loudly as if a light bulb has gone off inside his head. “Oooh, or maybe that one dream about the whole six, six, six, mark of the beast thing? Because you know I’ll punch anyone who even fuckin’ suggests that shit, right, Ford?”

Ford can’t help but to smile as Stan goes on his tirade, affection bubbling for his brother in a flood that threatens to drown him, but in this instance he doesn’t quite mind the threat of asphyxiation. “No.” He shakes his head. “Nothing like that, Stan, I barely even remember it.”

“Well, bro, if you do remember you know I’m here, right?”

Ford sighs, eyes fluttering as tiredness truly begins to swallow him whole. “I do.” He says, _and I hope that will always be the case,_ is what he doesn’t say. His voice is barely above a whisper, barely any louder than the rain drowning the earth around them and distantly he wonders if the flood will come soon, if only to punish him for the things his heart desires but can never have.

“Stanley…?”

He hears Stanley yawn. “Yeah, Sixer?” His question is edged with sleepy affection, his voice radiating a tired kind of fondness even as his voice is as soft as velvet and as sweet as honey. He doesn’t have to see Stanley to know he’s smiling that crooked half smile his brother reserves for him.

“I-” _I love you,_ is what lingers on his tongue and screams like a siren song _oh so tempting_ inside his head, but instead he grips his sheets with one hand until his knuckles are white and his mind is screaming at him in a litany describing exactly how stupid he believes himself to be. “-I think we should head to sleep; we have a test in the morning.”

Stan is silent for a beat, as if considering his next words but Ford can’t tell even a fraction of what’s going through his twin’s mind without sticking his head over the side and chancing a look at Stan. It’s an action he doesn’t even dare taking, if only for the fear that Stan has somehow heard the subtext his pause punctuates and somehow extenuates.

“You’re right, Sixer.” Stan finally replies, sounding infinitely more tired than he had a moment ago and, to Ford’s surprise, he even sounds a little disappointed? Ford’s no stranger to the disappointment the prospect of sleeping brings, why sleep when he can be much more productive with those hours of his existence? It’s not the promise of a test that sets Stan ill at ease, he knows, his twin intuition finally working at least a little.

Maybe Ford isn’t the only one who misses the summer they had spent together, a season of easy communication, closeness and very few responsibilities. Every night before, and even after, Ford’s revelation they had stayed up talking to one another until the early hours of the morning, but now they were both trying to conform to being back in school once again.

It’s startling how only a few short weeks can change things, for better or for worse. They’ve only been back at school for a week and a half and it already feels like the memories he’d collected over the summer were nothing but a dream stolen from his mind upon the simple act of waking.

“I’m sorry I woke you.” He apologises with a mouth full of lead and his tongue tied in fisherman’s knots, the kind he’s more than sure Hal could teach him given enough time.

“Hah, don’t worry ‘bout it, Sixer, besides tonight’s not been a complete loss.” Stan says maybe a tad too cryptically and all Ford can do is cock his head at the odd mystery suddenly thrown into his lap. To Ford’s dismay he doesn’t get any further clarification and he can practically feel Stan shaking his head to himself.

He hears Stan sigh and he has to sigh too, he’s boneless and tired atop his sheets and all he wants to do is to climb down to the bottom bunk and hold his brother in his arms. He decides he can settle for letting Stan’s voice be the last thing he hears before falling asleep.

“Goodnight, Stan.”

“Goodnight, Sixer.” His brother replies and it’s not enough, it’s just _not_ , but it’ll have to do.

Ford shuts his eyes and slowly falls asleep, his body too hot to even think about covering with his quilt. Unbeknownst to him, lying forgotten inside his hand is a dirty tissue, evidence enough of his late night activities. Somehow it’s gone by the time he wakes up for school in the morning, but that isn’t the only mystery that Ford misses in his obliviousness; he doesn’t even notice that his hand cream isn’t where he left it last night and that it’s emptier than his own self session had left it.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time writing solo porn ever, and also first time writing smut in like over six months?? In any case I hope you enjoyed it.


	4. Chapter 4

The sea air is like a slap in the face, almost like a realisation finally gaining purchase in the corners of Stan’s mind. The wind brushes against Stan’s skin and whips at his clothes as if begging for just an ounce of his attention, the sea, however, is thankfully calm as Stan turns the wheel just a little to the right; a destination already in mind.

There’s a small cove just a mile or so away from the beach, one with glittering quartz of a variety of colours and types embedded in the walls. At the right time of day light streams on through and hits the gemstones just right, the light refracting and creating a mural of rainbows against the rock like a naturally occurring disco ball.

Inside the cove, if his memory serves him well, is a small and sparkling lake surrounded by a variety of wildflowers. He doesn’t know how it came to be or who planted the flowers, all he knows is that it’s there and that the orchids had been planted if their meticulous positioning was any indication.

Whoever had planted them had done a good job; the flowers had been in full bloom the last time Stanley had seen them, their petals wide and luscious as they bent to face the light streaming on in. Stanley doesn’t know much about flowers; only that they’re expensive as fuck and rarely solve the problems pop culture proclaims they do, but he knows they had been cared for up until recently.

 He’d found the place on pure accident a while back when out fishing, he’d dropped his fishing rod and the current had swept it inside; the ocean having lead into that surreptitious lake. The rest is history.

Stan won’t lie; he’s been planning to show Ford this cove for some time, the kid’s a little too high strung and professional even when they’re out at sea and it’s just the two of them and the ocean. Maybe it’s weird or manipulative, or whatever, that he wants to see Ford smile a little, his grin easy and unselfconscious for a change.

Or maybe Stan just wants to see two beautiful things in one place all at once, maybe Stan just wants to frame this Ford in a moment of uncomplicated beauty. Maybe Stan just wants to see a glimmer of that innocence his Ford had lost long ago, without Stan there to even have a chance at defending it. Who can say for sure?

Okay Stan’s also maybe, _probably_ , a little lonely too; he’s grown up enough to admit it even if his ego would rather otherwise. During him and his Ford’s sea faring adventure through the Arctic Circle he’d somehow become used to constant companionship. After months of sailing from port to port across the Arctic Circle with his brother to be alone was…odd, terrifying in ways he hadn’t expected.

Stan sighs and shakes his head and looks to the teen looking out at the sea with wide, young and way too impressionable eyes. The way he looks at the ocean is just so full of intrigue, full of curiosity and as much as he loves his version of his brother he’s missed Ford’s innocent enthusiasm from days long passed.

Stan’s eyes narrow as he catches sight of the turn up ahead that they’ll need to take. “Hoist the sails.” Stan commands, one hand clenching on the wheel and the other gesturing to Sixer Lite.

The kid practically jumps to his feet to do as asked, looking skittish, sweaty and fatigued but determined to prove himself to Stan. Stan hates to admit it, but Ford looks _good_ against the backdrop of the ocean, he looks almost enchanting as the sun shines down on him and tans his skin to a honeyed hue. Ford always did look a better with a little colour in his cheeks and a healthier skin tone.

Ford’s hands spread across the line, his wider grip encasing the rope and pulling. The muscles in his arms stretch and strain; a couple more trips out at sea and the boy’s developing muscles will surely be prominent enough as to be striking. Beads of summer sweat roll down hairy forearms and the blue lines of Ford’s veins.  It’s enough to make Stan consider going to the nearest adult store and buying a chastity belt.

The sail locks fully into position as Ford ties a careful knot, one of the several Stan had taught him, he does so with a look of concentration spread across his face and his tongue poking out of his mouth. Stan can’t help but to smile a little at that; it’s been a while since he’s seen any version of his brother make that dorky face. 

This is their third time out at sea in the last few weeks and this time Stan is actually teaching Ford something, as opposed to simply hanging out and corrupting this younger version of his twin with alcoholic beverages. Although that had been fun too, so much so he now keeps a cooler stocked on board for if Ford does particularly well during his lessons. Hopefully Ford doesn’t end up with a crippling alcohol addiction after this.

Sure, Ford isn’t what Stan would call good at this, _yet_ , but he’s improving fast for someone juggling AP classes, chess club, building the Stan o’ War and planning his science fair project. But what else would you expect from Stanford? He’d always been a fast learner and a hard worker, unlike Stan who prefers lies, scams and stealing more than anything resembling hard work.

He sighs as he ponders the science fair, he tries his best not think about it; meaning he can’t seem to think of _anything_ else because his luck is about as short as a gnome playing limbo. The science fair isn’t for months, he knows that, and besides he’ll probably be gone by then; so no harm no foul, right?

But still the idea of being around when _that_ happens doesn’t appeal to him at all, it’s a temptation he’s been trying not to think about. A temptation that he’s been trying not to consider as an opportunity to create a better outcome, one where all the loneliness and resentment never came to be, one where they never spent forty hollow years in search of something to fill the void of their brotherhood.

 The science fair, try as he might to avoid it, looms over them like a ghost. Haunting him with what could be, what will be, and what can _never_ be. This is the part where he usually worries about how much he’s already changed, is that the reason his Ford hasn’t come to get him yet? Has he changed the future so much that Ford…doesn’t want to bring him back? Or maybe there is _no_ Ford to bring him back, maybe his Ford is dead and buried or maybe he’s still trapped behind the portal?

There’s so many shitty possibilities here, so many variables and crap to take into consideration, but he wants to be wrong about all of them. He’s only stepped on a couple of butterflies, it’s not _that_ bad, right? What’s a couple of butterflies to a whole ecosystem, yeah? It’s barely a dent, barely a scratch, _really_.

“We should be there soon.” Stan remarks, turning the wheel just so. He can’t even see Ford but he can sense him moving about, he can hear him too and he knows the sounds Ford’s feet make when they stride across the deck well enough to know his brother needs a break. “Take a breather, kid, and maybe a can too whilst you’re at it. You’ve been doing pretty well.”

From the corner of Stan’s eye he can see his brother brighten up at that. His previously slouched shoulders rising up and the corner of his mouth doing the same as well. “R-really? You think so?” Ford asks as he fumbles with the cooler.

“Wouldn’t say it if it weren’t true now would I, kid?” Stan smirks as he sees colour filling Ford’s cheeks and running down his neck like dye staining water. Has Ford always been so easily embarrassed? Stan’s always remembered him as awkward, yes, but more confident than this. Maybe it’s just something about ‘Hal Forrester’ that just makes Ford act this way, whatever that is Stan desperately wishes he could channel it more effectively; he’s not too proud to admit that he loves watching Ford flounder and flail around him. It’s endearing in a way Stan just can’t put into words.

He watches as Ford grabs a can from the cooler and sits down next to him. Ford fiddles with the can a little and looks around the boat, it’s almost as if he’s expecting Pops to show up and give him the hiding of his life. After much deliberation he opens the beer and before he can lose his courage he takes a swig, to his credit he doesn’t even grimace like he did the first time. Stan full out grins at that, feels a little pride that this Ford is growing up a little and that in some ways it’s all thanks to Stan.

“Where _are_ we going?” Ford finally asks as he brushes foam from his mouth with the back of his hand. “I, uh, forgot to ask in all my excitement.”

Stan chuckles as he shoots Ford a look over his shoulder, his expression is all amusement and confidence. “It’s a surprise, Si-” He cuts himself off, barely catching the nickname before it could ruin his cover and damn him. “-uh, _kid_ , that is _totally_ what I meant to say.”

Stan groans internally at his slip. _“Nice going there, Stan_. _Sixer Lite totally bought it, you are the king of finesse and subtlety. Oh god, this is a mess.”_ He groans again and runs a hand down his face.

Ford frowns briefly at the odd lapse in Stan’s sentence but after a second he merely shrugs, seemingly ignorant to Stan’s terror at having been possibly found out. When Ford continues the conversation like nothing happened that’s when Stan breathes a sigh of relief.

“A surprise?” Ford questions with both a hum and a sip from his drink. “That’s a tad ominous as I barely know you.”

“Oh?” Stan quirks an eyebrow and he turns to face Ford, he leans his back, perhaps unwisely, against the steering wheel. “And why’s that then, kid?”

Ford puts the can down and raises a finger indicated the number one. “For instance; you could be a serial killer.”

Stan’s only response is to laugh, loudly and obnoxiously at that. “Seriously? Now, when we’re _miles_ out at sea, is when you decide to ask? Now? _Really_?” Stan chuckles again, quieter but no less incredulous than before. “Oh boy do you need to work on your timing skills, kid. Ya might have wanted to ask me that _before_ I got you all nice and alone.”

“Ah, duly noted.” Ford remarks. “Still, you didn’t answer the question. Are you a serial killer by chance?”

Stan shakes his head and shrugs. “Kid, I think the time for stranger danger passed the moment we left the docks, but no, I do not happen to be a _serial_ killer.” Stan pauses and gives a sharp turn to the left that jostles Ford a little, luckily for the both of them Ford doesn’t let the beer spill and instead cups it in his hands once again. “Any more questions swimming in that brain of yours? We’ve got time for a little Q ‘n’ A, if ya want that is.”

Ford nods at that, his expression one of consideration and shifts where he sits, fidgeting in place as he no doubts thinks of a legion of questions to throw at Stan. Finally, after a couple of minutes of careful contemplation he takes a sip of his drink, probably for the added illusion of Dutch courage, and his eyes lock with Stanley’s.

“What drew you to Glass Shard Beach?” He asks, genuinely curious. “Glass Shard is hardly a well-known town, nor would I call it a good place to settle down and have kids.”

Stanley laughs at the mention of kids. “Me? Settle down and have kids? I’m past my prime but even if I weren’t it’s unlikely, don’t get me wrong I’m a stickler for family but it’s never been in the cards for me.”  Stan sighs. “And as to how I got here? You could say it was fate or destiny or whatever, but I’m gonna just call it what it was; an accident.”

Ford’s face shifts through several expressions before settling on interest, his intrigue ever increasing. “Why stay then? You could probably leave at any time if you were so inclined.”

Stan chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Oh kid, do you ever got a lot to learn about responsibility.” Stan remarks wistfully. “Not everybody’s got the option of being able to up sticks and make something of themselves-” He cuts himself when he feels a lump forming in his throat.

He’s being too honest, too truthful right now and whilst that helps when crafting a more believable lie it also sets one up for being found out too. It’s a dangerous line to walk; being truthful enough to lie effectively, but not too honest as to reveal all the secrets desperately hidden from view.

He closes his eyes for a moment, contemplating whether or not to even continue his answer. He can feel the sun shining on his face, the wind whipping through his hair and he can taste the salt in the air. If there ever was a time to be as honest as possible it was now. He opens his eyes and he can only wonder what expression is on his face, can only wonder what Ford sees when he looks at him. He can feel his heart beating heavily inside his chest as he decides to continue.

“What I mean is; I’m waiting for something, something important. Heck, maybe I’ve been waiting my whole life, but that’s why I’m still here. I’m not what you’d call an optimist but hah, I’m hoping if I stay right where I am I’ll find what I need. Or maybe what I need will find _me_.”

Ford opens his mouth to speak, his eyelashes fluttering wildly and his cheeks look tinged with red for some reason Stan can’t decipher.

However, he doesn’t get to speak, his words are stolen from him when Stan gives a harsh turn on the wheel. It’s a dirty trick but Stan has a feeling whatever Ford wanted to say wouldn’t have been good for either of them. “We’re here!” Stan exclaims, a huge grin decorating his face.

Ford finishes off his beer and lowers the anchor as Stan ties the boat to a small railing nearby. It doesn’t take long for both of them to finish and immediately Stan is leading Ford to the cove entrance. “You’re gonna like it.” Stan assures him.

“I don’t even know what ‘it’ _is_.” Ford counters, one hand is resting on his hip whilst the other is readjusting his glasses prissily.

Stan rolls his eyes and places a hand on Ford’s back. The kid stiffens under his touch and his eyes snap up to meet his in shock. Stan almost frowns but then he quickly remembers how devoid of touch Ford’s life has been, the only person willing to touch him on a regular basis being Stan’s younger self.

“Now, kid, why would I ruin the surprise by telling ya, huh? Come on, live a little, kid. You plan out every little thing, you do that and you’re gonna miss out on all the real stuff, ya know.”

Ford shakes his head incredulously and chuckles. “I thought I hired you to teach me sailing, not life lessons.”

Stan laughs in response and roughly he jams a thumb into his own chest. “What can I say? With me you get the whole package, nobody can say old Hal Forrester don’t teach you nothing!”

Sixer, no wait, _Sixer Lite_. Shit, he really has to be careful, as hard as it is to make distinctions and draw lines it’s for his own good, he’s already making stupid decisions as it is, but if he starts to think of him like he does his Ford? Then that’s asking for a whole world of trouble that _nobody_ wants, least of all time and freaking space.

In any case Sixer Lite rolls his eyes and politely shrugs off Stan’s hand and Stan turns to him. “It’s just there.” He says, pointing to the cove’s entrance. “Okay, gonna sound weird but I’m going to put my hands over your eyes and temporarily blind you with my big ass hands, sound good? Great!”

Ford blinks at him. “I feel as if I should be questioning the legitimacy of your previous answer to my serial killer question.”

Stan waves a dismissive hand. “It’s nothing creepy and besides I got a deal for ya, nerd. I’ll let ya continue to ask me whatever weird and obscure questions ya want about my life, and I’ll have to answer you; no ifs, ands or buts about it. No side stepping, no changing the subject; just you asking me questions and me taking it like a man. That deal enough for you?”

At that Ford gives a thoughtful hum, as if weighing out the pros and cons for such an agreement. Eventually he heaves a nervous sigh and crosses his arms over his chest, his brows are minutely furrowed but his cheeks are red; all in all, he’s a mishmash of expressions that Stan’s having a little trouble reading accurately.

Finally, and after much deliberation, Ford nods and his arms fall to his side. “Okay.” He agrees. “But you have to answer whatever question I ask.”

Stan clicks his fingers. “Done, done and _done_. Signed, seal and delivered, whatever you wanna ask I’m here for it.”

Ford smiles a little, the expression lingers even as Stan gets up behind him and places his hands over his eyes. To Stan’s surprise Ford gasps, even though he knew it was coming. If Stan’s being honest _he_ should be the one gasping, he really hadn’t realised when suggesting this that his body would be so close to Ford’s, that Stan’s front would be so flush with Ford’s back.

It should’ve been obvious from the jump that this would be the case, but for once Stan hadn’t been thinking with his dick. He’d been thinking about, as sappy as it sounds, making this good for Ford, giving him a nice memory, getting him out of his shell a little to let him look at the world. To get Ford to look at something that wasn’t an anomaly and still find it uniquely beautiful.

Stan gulps as he nudges Ford forward, they fumble a little as they try to arrange themselves into a correct formation that won’t end up with either, or both, of them falling into the sea like an ungraceful stone.

They take a couple of steps together and suddenly Stan hears Ford’s voice, way too close to his ear for his own comfort, speak. “W-why aren’t you married?”

Stan blinks at that, his eyes opening and shutting at a pace rapid enough to cause wind turbulence. His mouth suddenly feels dry and he almost jostles Ford in his grip due to surprise. “What makes you think I’m _not_ , kid.” He asks before he can stop himself.

He feels Ford take in a sharp breath at that, his back moving and brushing against his chest with each inhale and exhale. He grits his teeth and wonders how he let it get this far, wonders _why_ he pushed it this far too. Oh but he knows the reason why, it’s just like everything else in his life; he’s reckless, _stupid_ , and makes dumb decisions because he lets his feelings and wants get in the way of doing the right thing.

The only thing stopping him from clenching his fists and bashing his own head against a rock, or throwing himself into the sea, is Ford’s presence pressed against him.

“I-I, well, I thought since you don’t wear a wedding ring-”

Stan scoffs, not unkindly but more bemused in nature. “Wear a wedding ring with _my_ job, kid? Easiest way to lose a ring I’ve ever heard, outside of washing dishes that is.”

Ford halts mid step and Stan can _feel_ his eyes moving underneath his fingers and surreal and kind of weird actually, but Stan ignores it and tries to focus on the words coming out of his brother’s mouth. “Y-you mean you, you mean you’re mari-”

“Nope.” Stan says, interrupting him quickly although for Stan’s own shake he probably should be lying and going along with Ford’s own assumption, but he can’t. He simply can’t lie about this. It’s not that he hasn’t been married before, but _that_ was a short lived disaster that ended in an annulment and with Marilyn stealing his wallet and most of his dignity. “Just making sure you don’t jump to conclusions and shit. That’s the kinda thing you’re gonna want to avoid.”

“So, y-you’re not married?” Ford asks as they round the corner.

“Does marrying a gold statue in Vegas count?” Stan asks, voice low and amused, trying to distract Ford and trying to avoid truly answering that loaded question. Ford chuckles but shakes his head underneath Stan’s fingertips. “Then nope, kid, I’m as single as it gets.” Stan continues, as they finally come to a stop. “I’m going take my hands away now, okay?”

Ford nods to indicate he got Stan’s message and carefully the older man removes his hands from the other’s eyes. Ford opens them slowly, eyelashes fluttering as the dim light gleams around him.

Ford gasps and Stan grins like a maniac. “Looks like we got here right on time.”

Ford’s eyes are wide as he takes in the geodes that line the cove walls, as he takes in the flowers out lining the radiant lake standing before them. Light streams through the entrance and beats against their backs and casts their shadows long and wide, like men transformed into giants. The sunlight from outside hits the gems embedded in the rock and Stanford gasps again as rainbows begin glittering around them, shinning against them both and painting the world in vibrant colours and hallowed variegate glows.

The pool of water catches Ford’s gaze and Stan can see Ford locking eyes with him in the water. Stan gives a smug smirk. “And _you_ didn’t want to come here.”

“I-it’s amazing!” Ford exclaims, voice stuttering and catching in his excitement even as his hands gesticulate wildly. Rainbows are dancing across Ford’s skin and reddened sunlight is resting lightly on Ford’s face in a way that makes his brown eyes somehow _glisten_.

He looks indescribable to Stan and even if Stan were able to tell him, or smart enough to craft a single coherent sentence, he would never be able to think of the right words to string together to describe how Ford looks in this moment or any other moment for that matter.

Stan can feel his own voice catching in his throat, but it’s not because of the cove, could never be _just_ because of the cove.  He clears his throat and tries not to look at Ford as he replies. “Y-yeah, yeah it is.”

Ford’s eyes turn away from the geodes creating a rave around him to level Stan with an unreadable gaze, he looks less nervous and more confident than he ever has been with ‘Hal Forrester’ before. He looks sure in a way that gives Stan pause.

 The moment stretches out like taffy between them as Ford utters a question that leaves Stan wondering a little, has him questioning a little all the weird blushes and awkward pauses Ford has ever given ‘Hal’. “ _Why_ aren’t you married?” Ford asks, looking at him with a surprisingly coy expression.

Ford isn’t as far away as he seemed before, he’s closer somehow and Ford’s eyes, his words, his face, his _everything_ , seem to take up all the space around them. They also seem to take Stan’s breath away too, but it’s _Ford_ so that’s just a given. God, Stan knew not answering that question earlier might come to bite him in the ass, but he hadn’t expected it to be so soon. Stan can feel his mouth growing dry and his palms becoming wet with sweat.

 “Because-” He cuts himself off and wipes a hand over his face, a shameless attempt to hide his quivering expression from this younger version of his brother. “-well, it’s kinda impossible for me to marry. The only person I ever really loved well enough for that…they’re not an option and besides they wouldn’t want me _like that_ anyway.” Stan grits his teeth and avoids Ford’s astonished and surprised gaze.

“That a good enough answer, _kid_?” He asks, stressing the last word if only to get his brother to stop looking at him like _that_ , with sadness, clouded intrigued and, god dammit, _pity._

Ford opens his mouth to speak, Stan has ideas, theories about what he’ll say. Pretty darn good theories too, but he can’t let this, whatever _this_ is, go any further. He knows it’s his own fault for sending out signals, the kind of signals that he shouldn’t have relied on Ford’s naivety as to miss them completely. 

“We, uh, we should be getting back.” Stan interrupts, tapping over dramatically at the gold watch on his wrist. “We’ve got a long ride ahead of us and if we don’t leave now it’ll probably get dark before we even make it to the dock.”

Ford looks beyond disappointed at Stan’s words…almost as if Ford had been gearing up for something unthinkable, something unimaginable. It can’t have been what Stan thought, it can’t. Ford desiring him, well _Hal Forrester_ anyway, is impossible. Maybe it’s just some kind of misplaced hero worship or some kind of childish respect that Stan’s clearly misread, really that has got to be it; it being anything else is just insane!

Ford follows behind him, looking dejected even as they walk back onto the boat, set sail and raise the anchor to leave. Stan spares him a concerned, confused look whilst Ford’s back is turned. Heck, he almost thinks about offering Ford a second beer but he decides against it; for all he knows that first beer is what started this whole mess to begin with.

* * *

They make it back to Glass Shard without much difficult, at the very least they don’t get stranded on any deserted islands, that’s for sure.

The ride had been torturous in ways Stan can’t really put a name to, the situation is just…it’s shit, he’s not going to lie. He has no idea what Ford wanted back at the cove, he’s only got half formed guesses and fucked up little theories that do shit all in helping him to reconcile all of this.

Most people would take this time to _get the fuck out_ , but Stan’s a glutton for punishment who needs to know that Ford is safe, and so that’s how he ends up walking Ford home and standing like an idiot in front of Pines Pawns again.

It’s dark outside already, just another sign among many that Summer is almost over and that soon Fall will be rushing in to steal his breath, and to remind him of just how long it’s been since Stan’s seen the Ford of his time.

The streetlamps are already on and he can see moths flapping around the light bulbs like they’ve got a damn death wish, which, if he’s honest with himself, he can sympathize with. He’s always been drawn to the light radiating off his brother, always been drawn to his creativity and his passion…it’s just always been this way and this Ford…he’s younger but he’s still _Ford_ through and through.

The stars are twinkling just above their heads, the moon is a pale white disc in the sky, glowing grey and luminous as it shades Ford in delicate but decadent monochrome. Stan can feel his heart beating inside his chest as he follows Sixer Lite to the door.

“Today was....” He begins, but bites his lip trailing off. “Today was…educational.” Ford amends even as Stan raises an eyebrow at his wording.

Stan leans a shoulder on the wall of the pawn shop, his eyebrow raised in a delicate arch as he chuckles at Ford’s words. “Just educational? I was hoping ‘fun’ might’ve factored into our little outing too.”

Ford laughs a little but the expression on his face is odd enough to give Stan pause. Ford’s eyes swivel to meet his, brown meet identical brown in a stare that feels charged with… _something_. That feels a little heavy and heady almost. “It was fun.” He agrees, but Stan can hear a silent ‘but’ lingering in the air and it makes him wonder.

Ford’s just standing there, hand on the door knob and looking like he wants to say something, _do_ something. He looks filled with indecision and it makes Stan frown and wish he could do something to help, but he doesn’t know what’s rattling around Poindexter’s head. He doubts he would know what to say even if he did, he’s never been what anyone would call as ‘sensitive’ or ‘good at comforting people.’

Stan moves off of the wall and, before he even realises it, he’s got a hand on Sixer Lite’s shoulder, his palm a warm presence on the teenager’s bony shoulder. “Kid, are you alrigh-” He tries to ask but Ford is turning in his brief grip, his body moving fast enough to give the both of them whiplash.

“Don’t call me that.” Is all Ford says before rushing forward with enthusiastic hands but clumsy unpracticed digits.

Stan can feel himself being gripped, manhandled and maneuvered, there’s a hand resting lightly on his check and another in his hair, but what matter most is the rough mouth slam swallowing in his gasp like a sound proofed motel room. The kiss is inexperienced but more passionate than he’d ever thought his brother capable of.

It’s slobby and the way their teeth knock together speak of Ford’s inexperience, but the groan Ford makes as he closes his eyes and nibbles at Stan’s bottom lip has Stan grunting into it. Against his will his hands come up to cling to Ford, he’s got one hand on the back of Sixer Lite’s neck and the other is still resting on his shoulder, like it somehow physically connects Stan to the material plane.

The kiss seems like a moment paused in time to Stan. It’s everything he’s ever wanted, even if the execution could do with some practice and a couple of mints for better tasting breath, but it’s _Ford_ and that’s all that really matters.

Stan’s been waiting almost all his life for a kiss like this, for a moment like this one. He’s been waiting, hoping and the only times he’s ever deigned to pray it’s been for exactly _this_. His whole life he’s been begging for Ford to want him back, to desire him the same fucking way Stan does and now that Stan has it he knows he can’t, can’t do this. Not to a younger version of his brother that doesn’t know it’s him, not when he knows this whole situation is fucked to shit and wrong.

He’s just about to pull away when he notices a curtain opening in the corner of his eye. He looks up and almost chokes on Ford’s tongue when he sees a wide eyed Stanley standing in the window, their eyes lock as this younger version of himself frowns at him angrily. His hands are fuming fists held at his side only by sheer force of will, he looks like he wants to run down the stairs or jump straight out of the window to punch him in the face.

He looks heartbroken beyond his mask of anger; which Stan knows as intimately as his own reflection. He looks shattered standing there in the window, his expression surprised and hurt, it reminds Stan of another memory, one that punches him in the gut and has him jumping away from Ford.

“ _No_.” He tells Ford forcefully, his hands pushing Ford away hard enough for Ford’s back to jostle the door when they collide. “Why did you-” He begins to ask, but for the second time today he’s the one being interrupted. Ford doesn’t answer Stan, it’s the sound of the front door slamming as Ford runs away that does.

Stanley stands there his body stock still and his eyes horrified, astonished and full of longing as he stares at the door closed roughly in his face. He even chances a look at the window but the other version of himself is long gone, the curtain closed as if it had never been opened in the first place.

He places a trembling hand to his lips and growls at his own weakness, he let this happen and now for all he knows he’s ruined _everything_.

Stanley waits there for a little while longer, hoping against all hope that maybe Ford will sneak out and that they can talk this shit through with each other, but the silence on the street and the darkness around him tell him otherwise.

Eventually, with a resigned and pained heart, he heads back to his empty motel room and he goes asleep, dreaming about a swing set that holds no place for him.


	5. Chapter 5

Stanley turns away from the window, his fists clenched as the image of Ford kissing that geriatric old geezer flashes through his mind’s eye. Stan has no idea what the fuck happened, has no idea how to feel about it either.

Is that why Sixer’s been distant lately? Is that why Ford’s been heading out without him, not telling him where he’s going to be? Is that weird ass old guy the reason Sixer’s been all spacey and acting like a schoolgirl with a crush?

He has to be, right? Sixer did kiss him after all, really went for it too. Heck, he even closed his eyes and savoured it like one of those broads in those romance movies or period dramas that…Stan _totally_ hasn’t seen, like ever.

The old guy seemed pretty weird about the whole thing though, so maybe they hadn’t gotten all too far with each other yet. Or maybe he’d just been surprised to see Stan watching from the window like some damn voyeur, which he isn’t, of course he isn’t. It’s his own damn home, right? If he wants to look outside and watch his brother kiss some wrinkly oldie, then well that’s his business then isn’t it?

The thing that gets him the most is that…he’s never really seen Ford as someone who wanted that kind of thing, ya know? He’s always been a bit of a stick in the mud, the perpetual square, so to speak. Ford’s never really been interested in girls, which makes a little sense now given what he’s just seen, and just Stan had never thought Ford would be interested in romance…or sex for that matter.

And oh boy, Stan can tell Sixer was interested in the old bait and tackle; that kiss had been proof enough. Just from the look of it Stan knows that kiss had to have been intense and he’d only been looking from afar. Actually fucking feeling that kiss though? He’s surprised that old guy didn’t have to leave in a wheelchair, because damn Stan knows his legs would’ve been a little wobbly had he been the one getting smooched like that.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? Stan’s not just pissed about being ignored or for Ford having blown off working on the Stan o’ War…he’s fucking jealous too. Goddammit, he’s jealous with every fibre of his being, and he’s never been jealous about anyone in regards to Ford. He’s never needed to be, it’s always just been the two of them, none of them having any real friends outside of each other; he’s never had to worry that someone might come along and steal his twin right out from, hah, _under_ him.

Fuck, Ford doesn’t even know how he feels, doesn’t know that Stan wants him hard enough it hurts. Fuck, it wasn’t that long ago that he’d been listening to Ford jerking off and wishing, wishing _so damn hard_ that Ford would shout his name mid jerk and ask him to lend a hand.

God, he’d even seen Ford reach a hand out to grab that hand cream of his. Later on he’d cleaned Ford up a little, grabbed Ford’s used tissue and…well, let’s just say he had a little hands on action with Little Stan.

He’s just, he’s tired. Really tired of all this bullshit, if Ford wanted to spend some time with that scaly nosed son of a bitch then he could’ve just told him, he didn’t have to go sneaking around behind his back. Sure, Ford telling him wouldn’t have made him any less jealous than he is, but at least Stan wouldn’t have spent his nights staying up waiting for Ford to come home.

Stan doesn’t have too long to ponder this line of thought before he can hear footsteps treading across the creaky ass staircase and up the hallway. The door opens after a little while and Ford enters the room looking flushed from head to toe, like someone dipped him head first into a vat of cherry soda.  He looks up and his gaze lands on Stan, looking somehow startled that his brother’s even there to begin with, where the hell did Ford expect him to be anyways?

“Ah, uh, Stan I, uh, didn’t think you were still awake.”

Stan crosses his arms at that, he doesn’t want to act like an ass, but it’s not like his emotions are something he can just forget about. “Yeah, I was waiting up for you actually.” Stan remarks, maybe a little too snidely.  

Ford’s eyes widen at that and his fingers play with the set of house keys that he still has firmly grasped inside of his hand from having just come home. Stan eyes the newest keychain dangling from Ford’s bunch; it’s an oddly coloured fishing lure that Sixer’s managed to convert into a charm, he has no idea where Ford got it, but he’s taken to occasionally fiddling with it when nervous.

“Oh! I didn’t think, well. I didn’t think you’d want to wait up for me; we do have a test tomorrow.”

Stan blinks repeatedly at that and slowly his eyes narrow without his consent.

“That’s the thing Poindexter; you said you’d let me study a little with you so I don’t end up copying off ya all year like I did last semester. You made a big deal about it, remember?” Stan begins, coughing to clear his throat he changes his tone and coming out of his mouth is Poindexter’s voice, it’s a little sexier than the genuine article but that’s just a side of effect of anything coming out of Stan’s own mouth. “’It’s our last year, Stanley! You need to make an effort with your studies, Stanley!’ Yada yada yada.”

Ford stammers and looks at Stanley with guilt, Stan’s pleased that he at least has the decency to look remorseful. “I don’t sound like that.” Ford protests before averting his gaze away from Stan. “I can’t believe I forget about that; I’m so sorry, Stan.”

Stan rolls his eyes, if Sixer were _really_ sorry he wouldn’t be spending all his time avoiding Stan and hanging out with some creepy older guy. “Where the heck were you anyway? I checked the beach, but I couldn’t see ya anywhere, like did you just up and vanish or something?”

Ford stills as that, looking unsure as what to say as he rubs the back of his neck. “Ah well…I.” He shifts on his feet and looks awkward as he clearly tries to think of a viable excuse. Of course, Sixer doesn’t want to tell him about his adventures in smooching the elderly.

For a moment all Stan thinks about is just spitting it out, just confronting Ford about everything, just telling him that he saw the kiss and saw exactly how old that guy was. Stan trusts Ford’s judgement, of course he fucking does, but getting into a relationship with an older guy when you’re seventeen? That’s some _sketchy_ shit right there.

How did Sixer even meet this guy in the first place? Stan can’t imagine them meeting at the damn museum or the library, or some shit like that. The guy looks too rough around the edges to be into all that scholar-y shit like Ford is, honestly that guy looks more like he’s into the kind of shit Stan is into. He’s just not the kind of person Stan would’ve pegged for Ford’s ‘type’, ya know?

Stan sighs to himself, bites his lips and decides that the other shoe is going to drop sooner or later, so _why_ not ask Ford about it? Why not take off that last goddamn shoe now, yank the band-aid off all quick like.

“…you know, Sixer, you’d tell me if you had any secrets, right?”

Ford’s raises an eyebrow at that as he places his keys inside of the drawer closest to the bed. “Of course…why would you ask that? We’ve never had secrets between us.”

Stan shoots his brother a look so sceptical and obvious that even a blind man could see it from the corner of the room, let alone a metre away from the closet where Ford is rooting around for his pyjamas.

Stan sits down on the bottom bunk and rests his head on his out stretched palm. “You _sure_ about that, Poindexter? Remember Lizzy Riley?”

Ford looks over his shoulder at him, obviously confused as to the relevance of this conversation. “Lizzy Riley; blonde pigtails, braces and that mole on her right eye?”

“Yeah, that’s her, she also had legs for miles and boobs like beach balls! But yeah her; she had a huge crush on you.”

Ford startles at that new piece of information and almost gets trapped as he’s taking off his shirt. “What?! What, why are you even telling me this; she moved away almost three months ago!”

Stan waves his hand dismissively at Ford. “That’s not the point, Sixer; the point is I kept a secret from you, we all keep secrets. And I mean if _I_ can keep a secret from you, then clearly you’ve got a fighting chance in hiding some shit from me too.”

At that Ford turns to him, top half bare as he crosses his arms over his chest, adjusts his classes and looks at Stan with suspicion. “Stanley, what is this about?”

Stan raises a hand to his chest and gasps in faux indignation. “I’m so offended, Ford! Can’t I just want to talk about secrets, Sixer?”

Ford uncrosses his arms and places a delicate hand atop his hip and shoots Stan an unimpressed, but ultimately fond, look. “The last time you ‘just wanted to talk’ about something you had accidentally set fire to my chemistry set, Stanley.”  

“Oh come on, Sixer, it’s been years since that happened; you ever gonna let that go?” Stan pauses and gives an unconcerned shrug. “In my defence, Sixer, _you’re_ the one that left the damn thing on and left the room!”

Ford shakes his head and chuckles slightly, the expression on his face is clearly one of playful disagreement as to whose fault the accident had truly been.  “You’re changing the subject, Stanley.” Ford remarks with a laugh. “Whatever secret you have to tell me I’m sure I can handle it.”

Stan groans internally at that, he loves Ford, he really does, but sometimes he’s the densest person alive. He’s a genius when it comes to school and all things academic, but when it comes to people? He’s bum fuck stupid, as clueless as a newborn, it’s endearing as hell when it isn’t inconvenient as all shit.

Stan sighs. “Sixer, it’s not any of _my_ secrets you should be concerned about.” Stan remarks a tad sharply, annoyance rising to the surface despite his wishes. “Poindexter, _Ford_ , you can’t be this dense, can you?”

“I really don’t understand what you’re trying to say, Stan-”

“I saw you, Sixer, I _saw_ you.” And before Ford can interrupt him with more questions Stan continues. “I was watching from the window when you got home…I saw you _kissing_ that old guy.”

Ford freezes in place, his mouth gaping wide enough for the perv in Stan’s mind to make a quip about finding a ‘proper’ use for all that free space. Ford’s eyes flash with terror at this revelation, as if his scared of Stan’s reaction, as if he’s worried Stan’s just going to up and disown him or something. Pfft not very likely, if being into dudes was any sort of problem for Stan then he sure as hell wouldn’t be pining after his own fucking twin.

If Ford’s worried that Stan’s going to rat him out then his concerns are way off the mark. Stan would never do that to Ford, no matter how shitty his taste in men turns out to be.

“Stanley, I-I don’t know what to say.”

“You could start with how you met the guy, for one, and then move onto _oh_ _I don’t know_ ; why the _heck_ you decided to kiss a man old enough to be dad’s age!”

Ford startles and looks around the room shiftily, as if expecting their father to be summoned by the mere mention of him. “Stanley, please lower your voice…I don’t want the whole city block knowing I-”

“Knowing that you locked lips with mullet Santa?”

Ford frowns at Stan, his expression aghast. “Stanley! That isn’t funny.”

Stanley throws his hands up in the air, if Ford gets to kiss some random guy Stan should at least be allowed to tease him about it! “Oh come on; don’t tell me you can’t see it! He was _even_ dressed in red!”

Ford shakes his head incredulously, but the movement doesn’t last long before he’s laughing at Stan’s words, for as much as he would like to deny it Ford can’t resist Stan’s jokes; he never been able to and it’s unlikely that’s going to start now.

“Alright, alright.” Ford relents, an arm wrapped around his own chest. “Maybe you have a point; but I assure you he has very little in common with that figure of holiday cheer.”

Stan raises a suggestive eyebrow up at that. “You sure about that, bro? You sure he didn’t climb down your…chimney? You sure he didn’t leave you a little…present? You really telling me you _didn’t_ sit on his lap or, hah, that you didn’t _lick_ his candy cane? Or, hah, I got a _good_ one! That he didn’t stuff your stocking? Come on, Sixer, you’ve traumatized me enough tonight by having to watch _that_ , you at least have to give me the details; I’ve told you _allll_ about my heated sessions, gotta return the favour here, Ford. Or who knows, maybe I’ll go and find this guy myself and ask _him_.”

“I’m sure that if he _did_ leave me a present it would be _far_ from little, Stanley.” Ford replies with a touch of sass.

Despite his own jealousy Stan has to chuckle at that; he’s never been one to ignore a good joke. “So, uh…you and him have actually-”

Ford raises a hand that silences Stanley before he can even finish the question. “No.” He says simply with a shake of his head. “I, I was being stupid; that was our first kiss…we’ve never done anything…intimate. I, uh, merely saw an opportunity and took it…so to speak.”

Stan grins saucily at that, Ford’s blushing and has been since the conversation about this mystery man had begun, and goddamn it if Stan isn’t going to milk this for all it’s worth. “And _woah_ did you ever take it, Sixer! I saw that kiss and sure, yeah, I think your technique needs a little work, but damn! You really had him on the ropes there, looked like he was gonna faint.”

“Stanley!” Ford exclaims, his face a burning flame.

Stanley shrugs all nonchalant as Ford is practically dying across from him. “What? It’s true though!”

Ford laughs to himself, tired and whispery as he turns back to their shared closet and pulls out a pair of blue and red pinstripe pyjama bottoms. He eyes Stan oddly over his shoulder. “C-could you, uh, turn around…?”

Ford doesn’t usually get so embarrassed when they’re changing, at least not when Stan’s looking that is, and he’s adult enough to admit he watches Ford when he doesn’t think Stan’s looking. Especially when he’s getting dressed. “Embarrassed, Sixer? You sure you ain’t hiding hickeys you don’t want me to see?”

Ford looks nervous at Stan’s remark, he can tell because he can see the sweat dripping off his neck and rolling down his chest. Stan’s not ashamed to admit that’s an image for the spank bank.

“Why would there be hickeys on my legs…?” Ford questions dazedly, confusion evident in a way that only a truly naïve virgin can muster.

Ford finally shucks his pants and Stan has to cough to mask a potentially fatal groan. Stanley shakes his head and does everything in his power to make sure he isn’t the only one blushing his way through this encounter. “Hah! If anyone ever goes down on you they’re gonna _blow_ your goddamn _mind_.”

Ford’s eyes widen in realisation and he damn near brains himself on the closet as he pulls on his pyjama pants. Stan can tell Sixer is struggling with a reply and it occurs to Stan they’ve gone off topic, in all Stan’s excitement just to have Ford talking to him for once after at least week of near radio silence.

“You know…you never did tell me how you met Mr Mystery.”

Ford gives him A Look over his shoulder, one that simply reads as ‘dang it I’ve been found out’, clearly Sixer had been stalling for enough time until Stan forgot or dropped the matter completely.

Ford sits down on the bed next to Stan and tries his best to look casual. “Ah, I, uh. I actually met him at the bait and tackle store down at the beach front.”

“Oh.” Stanley says simply. “You were looking for stuff for the Stan o’ War right?”

Ford shakes his head. “Actually no, I ran in there to deter Crampelter.”

Stan’s face scrunches up in disgust, god does he ever hate that little shit. He’s been harassing them since they were kids and honestly Stan thinks anybody else would’ve gotten bored of it by now. If Stan didn’t know any better he’d think Crampelter had a major hard on for Poindexter, but he does know better; he’s just a major dick. “Ugh, that asshole! So, that’s when you met him; back when Crampelter gave you that shiner? That was weeks ago, Ford!”

Ford nods and absentmindedly he raises a hand to rub at the previously bruised cheek. “In any case I ran into the shop and tried to wait Crampelter out…and he, Hal his name is Hal, came over to check on me as I had been staring at the lure section for quite some time.”

“I’m assuming he didn’t immediately put the moves on you?”

“If you can call giving someone advice on how to deal with bullies as ‘putting the moves’ on me, then perhaps he did.” Ford replies dryly, but a small smirk betrays how he meant the sentence in good humor.

“Wait, wait a second!” Stan exclaims holding up a hand to get Ford’s attention. “When you say he ‘gave you advice’ do you mean he’s the one that told you pop the lock on Crampelter’s sweet ride?”

 Ford blinks at him slow and surprised. “…how do you know that? I never told you about that!”

Stanley grins from ear to, atrociously big, ear, it’s the most shit eating grin of the century, the kind that scholars and historians will look back on in awe. “Sixer, you told me you were staying behind for chess club; I’m not an idiot Poindexter, I know chess club disbanded ‘cause you didn’t have enough nerds for it after what’s his face with the weird hair left-”

“Rick, his name was, Rick.”

“-yeah Rick, _whatever_ , but yeah I knew that you were lying through your teeth about chess club, so I followed you. I was pretty fucking surprised when I saw you playing criminal with the local asshole’s bike, hah, after you left I took the liberty of stealing that motherfucker.”

Ford’s face shifts into the perfect recreation of an exclamation mark. “ _Y-you_ stole the bike?! That’s, that’s dangerous Stanley! What if someone had _seen_ you?”

 Stan gives Ford a look that clearly demonstrates exactly how much of a shit he gives about that. “Hey, you can’t talk; you’re the one that popped the lock, what if somebody had seen _you_ , hmm? Didn’t think about that, did ya, Poindexter?”

Ford is speechless at that, clearly having no words to justify his own illegal actions. He coughs into his fist and continues with his explanation about how exactly it was that this thing between him and this shady ‘Hal’ character, if that’s even his real name, began.

“After that I found out via the bulletin board that he was giving out sailing lessons.” Ford explains. “I thought it would be a good idea that at least one of us learned how to sail a boat and I did have some money left over from our birthday.”

Stan nodded, that seemed like an innocent and pragmatic situation; pretty much a classic Sixer move if Stan ever saw one. Still, that didn’t explain Sixer’s literal hard on for the guy. “So what happened then? You went for a couple of rides on this guy’s boat and then, what? You wanted to jump his mast?”

Ford looks a little pale and flighty at Stan’s words and Stan realises just how confrontational that probably came out. “I mean not that there’s anything wrong with that, Sixer! I mean it’s not like I ain’t messed around with a guy after just meeting ‘em and all.”

Ford blinks all owlishly at him then, all wide eyes and surprise as Stan realises Ford didn’t know about the kind of shit Stan gets up to when Sixer ain’t around. Poindexter doesn’t know that he’s fucked a few guys here and there, and maybe just maybe Stan feels a little guilty; here he is getting on Sixer’s case about who he wants to give up the goods to and how he shouldn’t be keeping secrets from him, yet here he is the walking definition of hypocrisy.

“Stanley, y-you’ve been with _men_?” Ford asks, his face surprisingly unreadable to Stan whose mastered Sixer-nese by now.

Stan rubs the back of his neck, feeling, not awkward per-se, but unsure as what to say. It’s not like Ford has any room or reason to judge him, but he still worries about his brother’s opinion. He’s also not looking forward to Ford potentially calling him out on his contradictory behaviour.

“Yeah, I mean, a couple of guys every once in a while. Nothing really serious, otherwise I would’ve said something, ya know?” Stan laughs to himself, voice a little strained. “I mean, I didn’t know if you were like okay with shit like that and we both _know_ how dad is, so yeah I didn’t say anything. And like I _know_ you’re probably pissed at me because I’ve been playing the ‘secrets are bad’ card and have, ya know, been lying to ya for like a _while_ now-”

Ford shakes his head and interrupts Stan before he can continue to make an ass of himself. “Stanley, it’s okay. I may not like it, but I do understand. I also understand your concern in regards to…Hal, he, uh, he _is_ much older than I am.”

Stan bites his lip and readies himself to ask the real question here, the question that’s been weighing on his mind for a long ass while. It’s the kind of question that leaves a bad taste in his mouth, it’s the kind of question that has him wondering, that has him fearing Ford’s answer. “If ya know that then why’d you like him so much, huh? If you knew it’s weird as shit then why’d ya kiss him in the first place? Not judgin’ you or nothing, Sixer, just wondering, ya know?”

Ford looks considering, as if he’s contemplating the exact configuration of words he wants to use, as if he’s writing a list of bullet points or drawing a carefully inked explanation inside his own mind. “I don’t know quite know how to explain it, Stanley. He’s, well, he’s loud and brash, intelligent and knowledgeable about things that are well outside my own expertise. He’s masculine, which I don’t know if that’s an attractor or not, but it’s a key part of him that I do find to be something that works well for him. He’s also, ah, nice to me, which seems like such a basic and simple thing but-”

“I know what you mean, Sixer, everyone’s been a dick to you here, ‘sides me. So I get that, I get it, I don’t like it, but I do understand why that’d get, you know, a reaction from ya.”

“Thank you.” Ford replies. “But yes, he’s also…surprisingly physical. Every time we’re out at sea he’s always so…physically present, sometimes when I get off that boat, well, I can still feel his hands on my shoulders.”

Wow, so touching Sixer on the shoulders is like his kryptonite something? Weird, but Stan’s in no position to judge a man’s kinks, it’s not like he hasn’t got a few of his own anyhow. “Shoulders, huh? Anything else?”

Ford looks down at his hands and fiddles with the extra fingers absentmindedly. “Ah, he, well, he once made a remark about my hands-”

At that Stan practically sees red, he fucking hates it when anybody bullies or makes Ford feel uncomfortable about his hands. They’re just a part of his body, it’s not like they really matter, Sixer’s hands shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but yet to everyone else but Stan they are. Everyone is always judging him because of them, completely ignoring the fact they do nothing to alter his personality or smarts. Goddammit, he fucking hates this shit. “Nobody, and I mean _nobody_ , not even a hot old guy gets to trash talk _my_ brother! I’m gonna _kill_ him!”

“No, no, it wasn’t like _that_ , Stanley. He, well, he actually made a, I don’t want to say it was flirtatious, but it was indeed a seemingly flirtatious remark about them.”

Stan’s eyes widen. Oh, _oh_! So this wise guy likes, Sixer’s hands, huh? That’s…new, and maybe he should’ve seen it coming. He can’t be the only one who sees Sixer’s hands and thinks ‘Heck yeah, I want a piece of _that_ ’. It’s just, well, he never thought it’d happen so _soon_ as all. He’s used to this town being as dumb as bricks, not all that great at seeing a perfectly good opportunity, or a nice set of hands as the case may be, when it’s right under their noses.

But this guy? This guy ‘Hal’ isn’t someone he’s seen around before, he’s clearly some new guy fresh from wherever the fuck he’s from. He’s new and…clearly he doesn’t have the same hang ups that the people in Glass Shard do. It’s not really anything Stan ever expected to happen, it’s the kind of thing he didn’t think would happen until after him and Ford sailed out of Glass Shard on the Stan o’ War.

“So…you _like_ that he wants a piece of your hands or…?”

Ford blushes a little, cheeks staining red as he places his hands in his lap. “I don’t really know _how_ to feel about it exactly, but it’s nice not be…ridiculed for them for once.”

The treacherous voice in Stan’s mind rises to the surface this time, telling him that _he’s_ never mocked Ford for his fingers, that _he’s_ never made him feel any different for being born the way he was. It’s the same voice that’s singing a jealous chorus every time he so much as hears another reference to this ‘Hal’ guy.

“Well, _I_ think your hands are great, Sixer, honestly I don’t get why everyone’s such a dick to you. Sure, it’s not the norm, but isn’t that what people are always talking about? Individuality and all that shit? And honestly, _honestly,_ Sixer you’re the most individual person I know! When we ride out on the Stan o’ War I betcha there are gonna be a ton of folks who will see it too!”

Ford looks at him after Stan’s rant and his expression completely steals his breath. He looks almost vulnerable, as if Stan’s words have somehow stripped him of his defences, as if Stan’s words had shaken him to his core. “You really think so?”

Stanley puffs out his chest and points a finger at himself. “Think so, Sixer? I _know_ so! Anybody would have to be dumb as shit not to notice how fucking awesome you are.”

Ford looks at him with eyes warm enough to melt butter. “Stanley-”

Stan, however, intercepts whatever it was that Ford was going to say and punches him lightly in the arm. “Anyhow, let’s not get too sappy, yeah? Get any more girly and at least one of is gonna have to put on a bra, ha!”

Ford chuckles and returns the friendly tap. “Hmm, I do think you’d be better suited to wearing such articles of clothing. I _have_ seen your chest without a shirt after all.”

Stan’s mouth gapes open in surprise at Sixer’s teasing words, before he nearly chokes on a laugh that has him clutching his belly in good humour. “Those are fighting words, Sixer!” Stanley remarks as he throws, without much grace, a pillow at his brother’s smarmy little face. “And besides you’d be better at having a bra, you’ve got all those extra fingers; those’ve gotta be pretty, _hah,_ handy when unclasping those damn things. Like seriously take it from me, and I’ve had a few women in my time, bra clasps? Are the _devil_.”

Ford runs a hand delicately over the discarded pillow, as if he’s truly considering Stanley’s words on their own merit. “I will…take that under advisement.”

Stan’s eyebrows furrow as he remembers the real conversation going on between them here. He’s somehow managed to get off topic again, which isn’t unusual when’s he talking to Sixer; there’s always just so much to talk about that he just ends up getting distracted, ya know? “Anyhow, tell me more about this Hal guy; I still need to know if I gotta put a brick through his window or not.”

Ford shakes his head and raises his hands to gesture a deliberate ‘no’. “There really isn’t much _to_ tell, Stanley. I’ve only really known him for a few weeks…but I don’t think such extremes are necessary, really. In regards to, Hal, I almost kissed earlier on in the day actually.”

“Oh?” Stanley questions with a level of intrigue, and jealousy, that he tries desperately to mellow down.

“He took me to this cave out at sea, and yes I was sceptical of his intent, but _oh_ Stanley it was so beautiful! Exposed geodes lined the walls; do you know how rare that is? Not exactly my type of science, but still very exciting! And he looked…very attractive in the afternoon light.”

Stanley nods, he can get why Sixer wanted to kiss him. Mood lighting, beautiful scenery and some flirtation? Stan’s not going to lie _he’s_ given it up for less than that in the past, he isn’t surprised that Sixer would feel hot under the collar for that kind of thing. Perhaps Ford’s more of a romantic that Stan had thought. “So what happened? He didn’t notice you were putting out the ‘single and ready to mingle’ vibes, or…?”

Ford’s expression shifts unexpectedly and a sheepish look mars his face. “He tried to reject my advances, I believe. But I could tell it wasn’t something he _wished_ to do, so much as something he believed was the _correct_ choice to make.”

Okay maybe, just _maybe_ , this Hal character isn’t _that_ bad after all. Anyone that can reject Sixer for any amount of time has got to have some _serious_ restraint right there. Sure, he’s not happy Sixer is locking lips with anyone, let alone an older guy, but it could be much worse, right? Still that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to be introducing himself to Hal what’s his face.

Stan opens his mouth to make some kind of remark, but a yawn comes out instead and Ford’s eyes immediately drifts towards the watch wrapped around his wrist. “Oh my, we really should get to sleep; it’s almost one in the morning!”

Stan groans and runs a hand through his hair in annoyance. He’d almost forgotten all about that damn test, too bad he’s probably going to fail, not like anyone expects any more of him than that anyhow. Still, it stings that he had actually wanted to _try_ this time around, even if it had been at Sixer’s request. “ _Shit_ and we have that test tomorrow and all.” Stan remarks, exasperation as plain as the acne on his face.

Ford yawns too, as if Stanley’s yawn had unleashed the buried tiredness within. “I’m going to sleep.” He proclaims as he gets up from Stan’s bed and moves towards the bedroom. “If need be we, uh, we can continue discussing this tomorrow?”

Stanley nods, but he has no intention of discussing this in the morning; he already knows what he’s doing tomorrow after school and it isn’t _talking_ , that’s for sure. He knows this Hal guy works down near the docks and he knows exactly what he looks like, which is oddly a lot like their father come to think of it, which he _really_ is trying not to.

But yeah he knows where he’s going tomorrow; he just hopes that he doesn’t get arrested for giving a senior citizen an impromptu heart attack.

It doesn’t take long for Sixer to climb up the ladder, in the process he gives Stan a nice glimpse of his ass shimmying on up, and ready himself for sleep.  It takes a couple of minutes for Sixer’s breathing to even out and Stan knows he isn’t going to get a repeat of the other night, apparently Ford was too tired to jerk it tonight. A feeling that Stanley shares, for once his body is too tired and maybe a tad too jealous to get it up, and even if it could he knows he’d end up thinking about Hal and that would kill his boner quicker than accidentally catching a glimpse of Crampelter in the shower.

Stan turns on his side, closes his eyes and does his best _not_ to think about the day and if he fails, well, that’s between him and his own subconscious mind, okay?

* * *

The school day passes quickly, and as expected he fails his test. He can tell Sixer feels guilty about it for he keeps eyeing the sheet of paper clutched in Stan’s hand when he doesn’t think Stan’s looking. Stan’s not angry at Ford anymore, a little annoyed sure, but not as irritated as he had been at the beginning of last night.

Besides he knows exactly where to direct that angry anyhow; and it’s at Hal Forrester’s ancient ass face. Stan stops mid walk and Ford pauses in step too.

“Stanley?” He questions as looks around the school parking lot. “Are you alright? I know the score is _bad_ but I’m sure Pa will understand-”

Stan shrugs and kicks at the ground. “Ah, it’s not that Poindexter. _Okay_ , maybe it is that, but not completely, ya know? I just remembered that I gotta do something after school is all.”

Ford frowns and looks at him oddly, as if he’s suspicious of just exactly what it is that Stanley has do that doesn’t somehow include him. He shuffles in place and readjusts his backpack, that is no doubt full with library books, that’s resting on his shoulder. “You have plans? You didn’t mention that last night.”

And there it is; a moment he’s going to have to lie his way out of, it’s not the first time he’s had to lie to Ford for his own good, and it probably won’t be the last, but still it feels awkward to have to lie to Sixer’s face about the guy Ford gave some lip action to.

“Boxing.” Stan replies easily. “They’ve got a big tournament coming up and you know how dad is; said if I don’t improve my grades I gotta at least try out for the tournament, ya know how he is, so I’m not a complete waste of space.”

Ford winces in sympathy at that; Stan doesn’t miss the way he eyes Stan’s test score and the way Ford’s gaze trail down to his own fingers. “I see.” He says simply, looking at bit downtrodden. “You’ll be back before dinner, right?” He asks, voice hopeful like he actually wants to spend time with him after all this weird avoidance; it’s a nice change of pace honestly.

Stan gives a casual nod and places his hands inside his jean pockets. “Oh yeah, for sure. I gotta be back to give dad my results anyhow, _somebody_ has to disappoint the old man, am I right?”

Ford sighs and gives Stan a chastising look that looks an awful lot that their dad’s, it’s the kind of look that has Stan’s dick shriveling up and dropping off regardless of the fact it’s on his brother’s hot as fuck face. “Stanley, I really wish you wouldn’t say things like that.”

“And _I_ wish I was a rich as fuck soccer player getting all the ladies, but wishes aren’t worth piss.”

Ford shakes his head and Stan knows his pissed him off a little, that he’s annoyed by Stan’s words and he’s probably being an asshole, but they both know Stanley’s right about this, about their father and just how much Stanley is really worth.

“Stanley-” Ford tries, his tone one of exasperation but Stan’s having none of it and besides he has places he needs to be.

Stanley waves a dismissive hand in Ford’s direction and taps at a wrist watch he doesn’t have. “Save it, Sixer, I gotta go; tell Ma to save me some dessert if I’m not back in time, okay?”

Ford nods, he doesn’t exactly look happy about it, but he nods anyhow. They share at least one final look before Stanley runs off, leaving Ford standing in the parking lot alone.

It doesn’t take long for Stan to end up at the docks, not when he’s practically jogging the whole way. He knows the bastard works at the bait and tackle shop, it’s how him and Poindexter met in the first place, and so he waits.

He waits until he catches a glimpse of a familiar maroon beanie, but when he sees it all bets are suddenly off. “Oi!” He bellows, running fall speed towards the older man.

Hal turns around and his eyes widen like saucers once he gets a look at him. “Y-you!?” He mutters out, looking at him with enough shock to resemble a startled rabbit, albeit a hairy, grizzled one.

“I got a bone to pick with you, wise guy!” Stanley exclaims, nudging a finger into the older man’s chest. “I’ve heard a lot about you _Hal_ and I think it’s time somebody gave you a piece of their mind, and we both know Sixer’s a little too naïve to see the kinda game you’re playing.”

Hal blinks at him confusedly for about a second before his expression turns sour. “First thing’s first; you got your facts _wrong_ there, pal, I ain’t playin’ no game with that kid.”

Stanley laughs, raises a sceptical eyebrow and places a hand on his hip. “Oh _really_? The way I see it you’ve been flirting with him something fierce, getting it into his head that you actually want him and we both _know_ you’re only coming onto Ford because he’s not only hot, but vulnerable as fuck!”

Hal growls, pushes back against Stan’s finger and beneath that flab Stan can feel muscles shifting under his hand. He’s not going to lie; up close and looking at Hal, _really_ looking at him, he can kind of see why Sixer might want to knock boots with him. “I’m not after your _damn_ brother, so you can relax. Jesus Christ! I’m _not_ trying put the moves on him, okay, punk?”

Stan glares at him and looks down at Hal’s chest with anger and then back up only to see anger, resignation and maybe a type of longing lingering in Hal’s eyes. “You’re not after my brother? Hah, _like_ _hell_ you aren’t! Somehow I don’t think taking him to a cove in the middle of nowhere to look at pretty ass shiny rocks is as platonic as it gets.”

Hal runs a hand over his wrinkled face and groans. “Goddammit, I _never_ said I _wasn’t_ into your brother! I just said I wasn’t _after_ him, okay? I’ll admit it; I wanna piece, hard not to with a mind like that and hands like a sinful little dream made into flesh.”

At that Stanley shudders angrily, but also because It’s _true_. Ford is hot, Ford doesn’t know it, but goddamn is he ever attractive and Stanley hates the fact that only person in this town other than him that gives a damn is the only man that Ford wants. If Ford’s feelings had been unrequited maybe Stan could’ve handled it, but this? He can’t, he can’t handle this guy taking advantage of his brother.

Before Stan even knows it his fist is sailing through the air and rapidly descending towards Hal fucking Forrester’s face. He expects the guy to go down like a sack of potatoes, he is old as balls after all, but instead Stan’s eyes widen when he catches his fist, holds it and moves behind him in a swift movement unbefitting of such an ancient asshole.

And that’s how Stanley finds himself with his head being pushed onto the glass of the tackle shop door, Hal Forrester pressing down against his back as if it’s nothing. “Good aim, ‘though your form could use a little work, punk, but eh I was the exact same at your age.”

Stan growls and thrashes in Hal’s grip, but the only thing that happens is that Hal increases the strength of his grip. _Shit,_ Stan really regrets not jerking off last night, because this rough treatment? It’s just his fucking style.

“Now listen up, twerp, your brother kissed _me_. You got that, kid? Because I’m not gonna repeat myself again.” Hal pauses and Stan thinks maybe that’s it, that Hal’s done with him, but no Hal merely leans closer until Stan can feel him breathing against the back of his neck.

Stan gulps as he feels goose bumps rising on his own skin, damn traitorous body that it is.

“Not gonna lie, you got me; I _do_ want your brother, but I’m not gonna make a damn move on him. I know not to go sticking my foot in shit that they ain’t my damn problem, so yeah you don’t gotta worry about any competition from me, punk.”

Stanley stills, frozen as he digests Hal’s words. He can’t…he can’t possibly _know_ , right? Sure, he was a little hot heated and extreme when he tried to punch the guy, but that’s a thing concerned siblings do, right? It can’t just be him with his weird gay crush, can it? He’s seen siblings back each other up, so it can’t be that.

“Yeah, I _know_.” He hears Hal whisper barely just above his ear and _dammit_ he can feel his dick getting more than a little interested. Okay, maybe he _gets_ why Sixer couldn’t resist surprising this guy with a kiss, but _holy shit_ what are chances that not only is this guy Sixer’s type but _his_ as well?

Stanley gulps and struggles again, trying to buck this guy off. Fuck, he hopes he can’t tell Stan’s gotten hard over this. “You don’t know _nothing_ , you bastard.”

He can’t see it, but Stan tell, he can feel it in his bones, that Hal just rolled his damn eyes. “Whatever you say, punk, but you and I both know you got a major and, _hah,_ literal hard on for your bro. Although…” He trails off and to Stan’s surprise he suddenly being released from Hal’s grip. He barely has enough time to grab the wall for purchase before he turns around and catches sight of Hal’s burning eyes in the setting sun. “The only hard on ya got right now isn’t for that brother of yours, is it?”

Stanley gulps and he can tell the old man is teasing him…it’s not _quite_ flirting but there’s definitely something there, something Stan can’t quite read. “ _Fuck_ _you_.” He spits out, averting his eyes from Hal’s.

Hal just shakes his head. “I’m gonna give you a word of advice twerp; don’t go looking to fuck with someone when you yourself are looking for a fucking.”

For the first time since Stanley Pines ever learned that shame and tact were things not meant for him he blushes, and _god_ does he ever turn a bright red. He opens his mouth to make a comeback, but the only thing that comes out is a strangled garble of unintelligible words. For once in his life he’s been rendered speechless.

At that Hal laughs, loud and a maybe, if Stan’s reading him right, just a little bit hysterical. “You come after me again, kid? It’s not gonna end well for you, or me for that matter, but I’d rather not end up fucking either of us up, you hear?”

Stan frowns at Hal’s words, a little confused as to what he means. How the hell would that fuck him up? Well sure, it might if Stan got the cops on his ass, but he’s too proud for that; he’d never want someone to know he got his ass handed to him by some guy old enough to be sitting in a care home.

Stanley growls. “I want you to stay away from my brother!”

“And I want to go home, but wishes?” Hal laughs to himself. “Wishes aren’t worth piss.”

Stanley’s eyes widen and he nearly chokes on his own breath…didn’t he say the exact same thing to Ford earlier? What the actual fuck…that’s fucking _weird_. This guy, this _fucking_ guy, who the heck is he? He’s got the hots for Sixer and now, and now he’s talking like _Stan_ of all fucking people!

Of all the weird shit to happen to Stan this has to be the weirdest crap he’s ever had to deal with.  Ford can’t possibly _like_ this guy, right? Of course he does though, Stan saw him kiss the asshole. But it’s just…this guy is like staring into a goddamn funhouse mirror. Hal’s a little distorted, a little grizzled and rough, but he’s similar enough that it hurts. It’s so fucking mind boggling!

But damn, what does _this_ say about Ford, huh? His type, the only person he’s ever confessed to being attracted to, is essentially Stan’s evil _twin_ plucked straight out of bizarro world.

Stan gulps and he opens his mouth to shout, but he has nothing, can _say_ nothing to this stranger that is just too uncomfortably familiar to himself.

Hal laughs at his silence and places his hands inside of his pockets. “I can’t say I’m gonna stay away from your brother, promising that kinda shit is more than a little outta my wheelhouse, but I can say that I’m not gonna be sticking around too long, punk.”

Stan blinks at those words. Wait so…he doesn’t intend on sticking around, then why all of this bullshit? Why _not_ just say that at the beginning? The only conclusion Stan can draw from this is that this man is some backward ass motherfucker.

Maybe what Ford is _really_ drawn to isn’t the odd personality quirks that resemble his own, but the enigma that this man so clearly is. It’s the only answer that Stan’s mind can provide that _doesn’t_ sound bat shit bananas _insane._

Hal sighs and looks down at his watch. “I’d kick your ass a little more, but; 1. I think you’d enjoy it a little too much and 2. I’ve got places to be, kid, and none of them involve a twerp like you cramping my style.” He places his hands inside of his jean pockets. “Go home, kid, your brother’s waiting for you and god knows just how long it’s gonna be that way.”

“What the _fuck’s_ that supposed to mean?”

Hal shakes his head, more to himself than to Stan. “Give it ‘till Summer and maybe you’ll understand.”

Stan has no idea what to say to that cryptic piece of bullshit and neither does Hal apparently as he’s already walking away, leaving Stan standing there just as confused as Hal had been when Stan had jumped him. 


	6. Chapter 6

It’s been two days since what Ford would call the most disastrous affair of his young life, he’s still dumbstruck by it and for once he can barely concentrate on the lecture that their science teacher is droning on about in front of the blackboard. 

It’s a Friday and Ford knows intellectually that it’s almost expected that the students be winding down in wait of the weekend, but he’s never been one to slack in his studies, never one to falter and fret when he could just as easily be dedicating himself to his more scholarly pursuits. Pursuits that preclude lustful longings for either one’s own brother or an older gentleman similarly reminiscent of said twin brother.

But despite wishing to be more interested in the subject at hand, covalent bonds as irony would have it, he simply can’t help but to think of his mistakes and how he’s perhaps ruined his first true relationship outside of the one that he has with Stan. Not to say that him and Hal have a relationship, but they have… _something_. Well, more like _had_ if Ford’s assumptions about just how badly he’s burned that bridge are in fact correct.

He hopes he hasn’t, he _really_ hopes he hasn’t. He hopes that for once he’s wrong, that he’s wrong about Hal despising him, downright _hating_ him, for what he’s done. He knows, or at least believes, that Hal had been flirting with him that day and all those other times too, but there’s always the risk of Ford having…misinterpreted his intentions.

After all it’s not like Ford is used to friendly interaction, at least not with people other than his brother or his teachers, it’s not unlikely that he may have misread Hal’s overly friendly nature as… _intent_.

Worse still is the fact he had single-handedly sabotaged himself with one ill-considered kiss, a kiss that perhaps he could have gone his whole life without having given Hal. A kiss that, despite all the consequences that his thoughtless action had wrought, he still didn’t regret; it had been nice for as short as the kiss had been.

What truly throws Ford for a loop is the fact that Hal _did_ kiss him back, he’d gripped him by the back of the neck and had pulled him close enough that Ford had been able to smell his musk. He remembers the kiss in technicolour, he remembers it as if it had been in slow motion. He remembers tasting Hal on his tongue and he remembers how he’d avoided his strict dental health care regiment afterwards, if only to keep the taste of him for just that little bit longer.

However, moments later Hal had lost his enthusiastic resolve and had pushed him away firmly, as if kissing Ford was somehow wrong, as if Ford himself was somehow _wrong._ It’s not exactly the kind of reaction that inspires any sort of confidence… _god,_ Ford had been so embarrassed he had fled immediately afterwards.

In some ways he regrets fleeing more than he regrets the kiss, if he’d had the nerve to kiss Hal he should have at least had the decency to the pay the price for such a regrettable action. Perhaps if he had apologized then and there he wouldn’t be feeling so…he doesn’t even know the word for it, it’s outside of his vocabulary, outside of his frame of reference.

Ford doesn’t usually consider himself reckless or impulsive, but he does know himself to be swayed towards such decisions; it’s a Pines trait whether he likes it or not, and he is in no way immune. And in that moment he had lost himself, submerged himself in his baser and more emotional desires; it had been a downfall of the most intimate sort, a downfall he had never anticipated he would experience.

His feelings for Stanley, most would consider a downfall too and in some ways they are, but in others? They are a sweet descent that Ford is still experiencing even now, he’s constantly in a state of free fall. His mind constantly wondering if he’ll ever hit the ground, if there will ever be a moment where he reaches an end to the depths of what he feels for his brother.

He just hadn’t excepted to feel such feelings towards a person, _any_ person, let alone a man; let alone a man _other_ than his brother. He’s never felt so concerned with another person’s opinion before, aside from his brother that is…and he already knows how he feels towards Stan.

He knows he isn’t in love with Hal, that he hasn’t known him long enough for that…and whilst Ford is admittedly not always as self-aware as he wishes he were, he knows for certain one thing and one thing only; Hal Forrester is a projection, what Ford sees when he looks at him is the man that is, but also the man that his brother could one day be.

Ford has always known of their similarities, in all honestly it’s what drew him to Hal. The fact that Hal had been so friendly and almost like a mentor to him had only helped Ford shift his romantic focus, if only a little. Up until that grievous mistake of a kiss it had been good, more than in fact; he’d been having so much fun, he’d felt…happy, light in a way one could almost call giddy.

If Ford is being truthful it had been nice to have time away from Stan, to spend time with someone that he could have, if only just a little bit, if only in delusion.

But before he can continue down that line of thought he’s distracted by something sliding against his palm, he frowns and looks up only to see Stan looking back at him with concern. On the table is a piece of paper, he opens it and staring him in the face is Stan’s writing; ‘You still thinkin’ about that old dude?’

Ford internally sighs, had he really been that obvious? He almost wants to look around and observe his fellow classmates if only to see if anyone else had noticed his lack of concentration, but he knows only Stanley would be this attentive to his emotional state.

It’s almost ironic that Stanley cares for Ford’s mental health when he himself is a cause of much distress, or rather it’s how much an undeniable temptation he is and how his brother doesn’t reciprocate his feelings that often causes him anguish.

Despite himself he looks to his side and catches Stan’s eye, his heart almost skips a beat when he sees his brother lounging in his seat, feet resting on the desk without a care and one of his hands buried inside of a toffee peanuts bag. He smirks at Ford when they lock eyes and his smug expression is more than enough to make the butterflies in Ford’s stomach flutter their wings.

Stan raises an eyebrow at him, obviously expecting a response to his line of questioning, but feeling stubborn Ford decides to leave his brother waiting. Ford rolls his eyes and doesn’t dignify Stan with a reply, but despite himself he folds the piece of paper and places it in his pocket.

He knows Stan will grab him at the end of class and ask him for the exact details about his lack of focus, prodding him until he gets an answer that satisfies him. In this instance Ford doubts there will ever been an answer that will satisfy his brother, that there will ever be a right answer in regards to Hal that would put Stan at ease.

His brother has always been over protective in regards to him…and in many ways Ford finds the feeling warming, and in others? Not suffocating per-se, but his feelings for his brother feel like a rolling tide that constantly seems to drag him under, pulling at him in ways that have him gasping against the current of emotion, that have him drowning in longing never to be reciprocated.

It isn’t long until the bell rings signifying not only the end of class but school as a whole for the week. as Ford expected Stan corners him near his locker, it’s a song and dance Ford knows well. He rolls his eyes as he catches sight of Stan leaning his back casually against the row of lockers, his arms crossed and his mouth set in a permanent smirk.

It’s the kind of cocky look that Ford should find annoying more than endearing, but there’s very little Ford can do about his taste in men, or lack thereof in some cases.

Stan notices his arrival and his grin gets wide enough that’s he’s practically swallowing Ford whole with his captivating radiance, _damn_ _him_. Ford isn’t really mad, but for once it would be nice to just look at Stan and not feel his chest caving in at the sight of him.

Ford inputs his locker combination, opens the door and part of him is calmed when he catches a glance at the old, dog eared photo of Tesla taped to the inside wall. “So, Sixer.” Stan begins all nonchalant as Ford grabs at his library books resting firmly on the ledge of his locker. “Ya doin’ okay? You were lookin’ kinda spacey durin’ class.”

Ford shakes his head, doing his best to indicate to his brother that now is _not_ the time or place to discuss his homosexual inclinations and the woes that inevitably follow such an… _unfortunate_ orientation. Their school isn’t what Ford would call the most understanding or forward thinking place in New Jersey, not that he would call New Jersey all that progressive to begin with.

“I, uh, I was thinking.” Ford replies, nervous and hoping against all hope that Stanley will let the subject drop if only until later.

Stan laughs, voice a rumble as he raises an eyebrow up at him. “No duh, Poindexter.” Stan says with a roll of his eyes. “You still thinkin’ about… _him_?” He asks and this time his voice quieter and his tone is odd to Ford’s ears.

He knows Stan is worried about him, worried about his feelings towards Hal. He knows that Stan is only concerned with his well-being, that he doesn’t want Hal taking advantage of Ford’s obvious romantic and…sexual naivety.

It would be charming if not for the annoyance it brings Ford, he’s seventeen not seven. He’s old enough to make his own decisions…even if some of them have repercussions he would rather avoid.

Besides Ford’s the more mature out of the two of them, if anything it’s him that should be worried for Stan and his…dalliances, and now that he knows of Stan’s orientation he has even more cause to be concerned. It’s not just Ford that Filbrick would disown if he discovered where their attraction lay, although Stan does have the advantage of also being attracted to women.

Stan’s more normal than Ford could ever hope to be, Stan could hide that part of him if needed, but Ford? It’s hard to hide that part of himself when his greatest temptation is constantly by his side.

Ford sighs to himself, trying his best not to over analyse their situation, and stuffs the last library book into his backpack and shakes his head. “Stanley…now is not what I would call the right time to discuss this.”

Stan shrugs and pushes himself off of the row of lockers. “It’s just a yes or no question, Sixer, I’m not askin’ you to, I don’t know, recount in filthy detail the time the two of ya lip locked.”

“Stanley!” Ford hisses aghast at Stan’s lack of tact. If the wrong person overheard them, Crampelter quickly comes to mind, it could spell catastrophe for Ford; especially if their father found out.

Stan raises his hands out in front of him, it’s a placating gesture and it has Ford relaxing somewhat. “Okay, okay, Sixer. Sorry, I’ll keep it down; I just wanted an answer, ya know?”

Ford looks around the hallway, his eyes shifty as he makes sure the coast is clear enough for him to respond with honesty that won’t sabotage either of them. He feels something ease inside of him when he realises it’s only the two of them lagging behind, the rest of their class surely having left in a rush.

“I am.” Ford replies simply, his hand twisting anxiously as he holds onto the worn strap of his backpack. “Still thinking about Hal, I mean. It’s hard not to, I did give him my first kiss after all.”

Stan frowns in Ford’s peripheral and his crossed arms noticeably tighten, the slight change in demeanour has Ford narrowing his eyes in curiosity. Ford’s always been able to read Stan, but somehow, someway he’s become more of a mystery over the years and sometimes Ford wonders when exactly it first started.

Now when Ford looks at his brother he’s often unreadable, his expression giving nothing away as to his true feelings. Maybe it isn’t Stanley that’s changed, maybe it’s him; maybe his attraction to his brother has clouded his judgement, maybe by being so obsessed with who Stanley could be to him he’s forgotten who his twin truly is.

Ford clenches his fist at the notion, it’s not something he likes to think about but he wouldn’t be much of a scientist if he didn’t consider all the variables.

Stan’s posture loosens and he waves his hand dismissively. “You shouldn’t think about it, Sixer, you probably scared him off with that kiss anyhow.” He comments, seemingly oblivious to how much that casual comment stings. “I mean and even if you didn’t scare him off I-” Stan’s eyes widen, his expression changing to one of shock that’s clearly directed at his own words, he cuts himself off leaving Ford to ponder over the meaning.

Ford feels a sneaking suspicion wash over him, but it’s not anything he can confirm immediately, it’s not something Stan would freely admit to either. Ford knows exactly what he needs to do, what he’d already been planning on doing with his day regardless.

Ford looks down at his hands as he’s prone to doing when deep in thought and looks back up at his brother. “Could you tell Ma and Pa that I might be a little late getting home, tonight?”

Stan gives him an annoyed look. “You’re gonna go see him, aren’t ya?” Stan shakes his head to himself. “Don’t tell me ya still want a piece, Sixer, I thought we agreed it wasn’t a good idea.”

“I’m just going to apologize.” Ford tells him. “And to cancel any future sailing lessons as well; I doubt he’d want to teach me anything after that... _disaster_.”

“I wouldn’t call it a disaster.” Stan remarks with grin. “A monumental screw up of epic proportions? Sure. Fucker-y on a grand scale? Sure-”

Ford shoots Stan a glare over his shoulder. “You’re not helping.”

“-but a disaster? I wouldn’t call it that, Sixer, your kissing needs a little work though, but you’re not completely without style, ya know? You need a little work, but give it enough time and you’re gonna have guys wantin’ ta know _exactly_ how that sixth finger feels, if ya know what I mean.”

Ford doesn’t need to see the suggestive wiggle of Stan’s brows to know exactly what he means; despite Ford’s supposed naivety he isn’t stupid, he knows exactly what Stan’s implying. Just the thought of it makes Ford’s face flush, just thinking about Stan or Hal thrusting into his fist has him wanting it, wishing for it more than words can express.

Face red he hisses at his brother and quickly looks around before speaking. “I wasn’t talking about the kiss, Stanley!” Ford’s expression softens, placated by the silent and empty hallway, safe for them that is. “Well, okay, yes I was but not my _technique_ as opposed to my terrible timing.”

Stanley laughs and Ford hates how his stomach swoops for it, how his own lips twitch at the sound. “Oh yeah, can’t argue with ya there, Poindexter; you’re timin’ was pretty shitty, but you know kissing someone too early is better than too late, right? Like imagine if ya went forty years without a little lip lockin’.”

“That sounds…lonely.” Ford remarks with consideration as he imagines pining for his brother for four decades without avail, the mere idea of it chills him to the bone. He can’t imagine wanting someone for so long without even a glimmer of hope, without even the suggestion of reciprocation. It’s not a nice thought.  “Doable surely, but…” He bites his lip and trails off, not really knowing exactly _what_ to say.

Stanley too looks a little awkward at his own words and he rubs the back of his neck as he moves closer to the school exit. He gestures his thumb forward, pointing at the door casually. “Anyway, Sixer, shouldn’t you get going? You don’t want to miss Hal, right?”

Ford blinks at Stanley and his eyes widen as he remembers what exactly he was supposed to be doing. He throws his backpack over his shoulder as he runs ahead of his lingering brother. “Oh!” Ford exclaims, turning around to look at Stan once again. “If Shermie calls whilst I’m out tell him I said hi, okay?”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Whatever, Sixer.” He replies before Ford disappears over the horizon.

* * *

 

He arrives at the beach quicker than he excepted, his feet having carried him faster than his fleeting and frantic thoughts had believed possible. He’d kept thinking about Hal and what exactly he would say to him, he had sentences and monologues running through his head as he found himself inexplicably at Hal’s boat.

Now was usually the time of day when Hal got back from an early morning fishing trip, now was usually the time when Ford would arrive for his usual Friday lesson. Hal probably didn’t expect to see him, not after the other day, and Ford found himself feeling anxious at the prospect of seeing him again.

He has no idea what to say or how to speak to Hal, well he has ideas but none of them seem detailed or well thought out enough to even warrant beginning a conversation. Ford doesn’t want to admit it, but he’s afraid, terrified of how Hal will react, scared that he will lose their friendship…or whatever it is that they have.

He hasn’t known Hal for very long but being near him, conversing with him has been a liberating experience, an experience he didn’t know he desperately needed and he doesn’t want that to end just because of one stupid mistake.

Ford sighs and steels himself. “Hal?” He calls out, one hand resting on the wooden guard rail of the docks. “A-are you in there, Mr Forrester?” He asks, leaning closer to the boat.

He practically jumps out of his skin when a hand lands on his shoulder, his heart beating like a drum inside of his chest. He turns around immediately and almost glares at the person who startled him, to his surprise it’s Hal; he hadn’t been expecting him to already be on dry land yet.

Hal raises an eyebrow at him, rubs the back of his neck with his free hand and laughs a little awkwardly. “Woah easy there, kid. Don’t want to have to fish you out of the ocean, I’m not spry enough to play lifeguard, ya know?”

Despite Hal’s words Ford finds himself disagreeing with Hal, of course he’s spry enough. For a man of Hal’s age Ford considers him pretty youthful, it’s something he finds attractive about him; he’s a man in his more advanced years, he has the experience and wisdom that comes with age…and yet he’s friendly, approachable in a manner that just makes things easy and comfortable between them.

Hal’s not like the other adults Ford knows, he isn’t stoic and unimpressed, he doesn’t judge his value or worth based on his hands or his intelligence. He’s almost like Stan in that regard, unmoved by his oddities, simply calm and at ease with him. It’s something that makes him calm, happy; it makes him feel valued, it’s why he doesn’t want to mess this up, why he wants Hal to forgive him.

Ford laughs weakly and does his best to avoid looking Hal directly in the eye. “Maybe the salt water would do me some good for the utter mortification I’m experiencing.” Ford mused self-deprecatingly.

Hal chuckled and shook his head. “I gotta feeling fresh water’s better for that kinda thing, pal.”

Ford shrugged and put his hands inside his pockets, doing his best to forget about just how sweaty his palms were. “Well, I won’t know until I try, will I?”

Hal rolls his eyes and his hand tightens and then loosens on Ford’s shoulder, it’s almost as if he’s massaging him a little. Ford hates how much he wants to lean into the touch of that warm, calloused hand.

Ford gulps as Hal readies himself to speak, Ford frowns when Hal sighs. “Loosen up a little, kid, you’re tenser than a virgin on their wedding night. I don’t bite, so say what ya gotta and I’ll listen to you, but we should probably move this somewhere more private, yeah? Don’t want everyone knowing your business.”

The unhelpful part of Ford’s brain wonders in fact if Hal would bite if the circumstances were right. The more pragmatic part of his mind agrees and understands the necessity of what Hal is proposing, luckily for them the boat is but a stone throw away.

Ford scratches a perfectly trimmed nail at his somewhat reddened cheek. “Ah, uh, yes. That sounds like a good plan.” Ford replies as he feels Hal’s hand nudging his back in the direction of his boat.

In takes a couple of seconds for Hal to unlock the cabin door and during that time Ford can’t help but rehearse his apology, detail in bullet points inside his mind how best to express regret for his actions. When the door opens Ford can feel a lump forming in his throat, his nerves getting the best of him as his mind unhelpfully supplies all the things that could go wrong during this encounter.

He doesn’t have too long to consider this however as Hal is already moving inside. Ford trails behind him, his hand running up the oak banister as his fingers tap an anxious beat, for the first time throughout their acquaintance he actually gets to see what the inside of the cabin looks like. Every single time the two of them had been out at sea Ford had always spent his time above deck, but now his curiosity about the rest of the boat can finally be sated.

The room looks well-kept and tidy enough, it even looks like it’s recently being dusted free of cobwebs. There’s a small kitchen at the front, a medium sized table and a set of seats next to it, to the back is a door leading to what is presumably a small bedroom.

Ford sits down at the table, his hands resting on the table as he nervously twiddles his thumbs. Hal moves ahead of him and grabs a beer from the fridge, Ford immediately feels his luck diminish at that; him pre-emptively getting an alcoholic beverage does not bode well for the conversation they are surely about to have.

Hal pauses half way through closing the fridge door, turns to look at him his eyes considering as he then glances back at the fridge. “Ah, do ya want one or…?”

Ford contemplates it momentarily; the last time he got remotely intoxicated he’d kissed Hal, perhaps it would be best to abstain from such a temptation. But Ford’s never been much good at denying himself, he nods curtly to the older man and watches as Hal pulls out a smaller can than his own. At the very least Hal is making steps to avoid another…catastrophe.

Hal slides the can across the table and Ford catches it as it skids into his palm. His fingers play with the tab for a second, debating internally how best to proceed. Ford sighs and opens the can, he takes a quick swig to gain some courage but it does very little to ease his mind.

“So…” Hal begins, sitting down and awkwardly running his fingers through the knots in the hair resting against the back of his neck. “This is pretty fuckin’ awkward.”

Ford looks down at the can, doing his best to avoid looking anywhere but Hal’s lingering gaze. “You could say that, yes.”

Hal sighs and then growls in frustration as he pulls his ever present beanie from his head, Ford’s eyes widen as he watches Hal ruffle his own hair in uncomfortable annoyance. “Goddammit.” He hisses to himself. “Ya know what Six- uh, _kiddo_ , I’m gonna cut straight, well not straight ‘cause this is gay as shit, to the point. Ya kissed the fuck outta me, I know that, _you_ know that and now we’re flounderin’ like a pair of fish tryna find out what the fuck the new status quo is, that sound ‘bout right, Stanford?”

Ford blinks for a moment, his brain freezing at the provocative image that Hal running his fingers through his hair presents to him. Ford has so rarely seen Hal with the entirety of his hair on display, it’s a handsome, attractive image that has the corner of Ford’s lips tugging upwards despite himself.

A second later Hal’s words finally stop echoing in his ears long enough for them to finally register. “That’s an…accurate metaphor, yes.”

Hal leans forward, his elbow resting on the table as looks at Ford almost beseechingly as if hoping Ford would know what to do, as if Ford would have more answers than him.

“ _What_ are we gonna _do_?” He questions his voice heavy with resignation, to what Hal is resigned to Ford doesn’t know. “You’re _seventeen_ , kid, and I’m in my sixties. You’re a good kid with a smart noggin on ya shoulders and I’m a chubby old man with more baggage than a bellboy, I’m not the kinda guy ya should be gettin’ involved with.”

Ford raises a hand to silence Hal, not willing to hear any more of what he knows will be perfectly good reasons to drop the matter and never speak of it, or to one another, again. But Ford in all truth doesn’t want excuses, however true they may be, he wants definitive answers, the kind that Hal has not been forth coming with.

“If we’re going to be having this conversation call me Ford, you can’t just call me kid, even if it _is_ to distance yourself. I’m hardly a kid and you allowed yourself to kiss me back that night, so either you view me as an adult worthy of attention or…you view me as a child and neither of us wishes to contemplate the implication of _that_ , I’m sure.” Ford begins.

Ford hisses at himself in irritation, the words he wants to say don’t come easy to him. “I didn’t come here to make, to make a case for a relationship! I-I came here to clear the air, to give you an apology, but I realise now that was a bad idea, that I was being too hard on myself and that you too share some of the blame.”

Hal stands up from the table, his eyes concerned as he raises his hands out in front of him in a placating gesture. “Kid, calm down-”

“ _Don’t_ call me that!” Ford despite himself bangs his hands atop the table in annoyance, his eyes widen as he realises what he’s done, his unintended emotional response. He clenches his fist hard enough that his knuckles are turning white, he locks eyes with Hal and immediately feels embarrassed for having overreacted. “I-I mean-”

Hal moves across the table, his wrinkled hand reaching out to him and Ford can see the worry lingering on his face. Ford shivers as he feels Hal’s hand settle down atop his, Hal’s fingers weaving in between his own to loosen Ford’s powerful gip. “Ya tensing up, ki- _Ford_.”

Ford looks down at their joined hands and a familiar emotion fills him, it’s a more muted version of his longing for Stan and it only serves to make him want to lean into the touch and take Hal’s lips for his own.

“I’m sorry.” Ford says as he raises his eyes to meet Hal’s. There must be something in his gaze for Hal’s pupils dilate wide enough that his reflection is practically lost in them.

Hal’s eyes narrow and he shakes his head. “Don’t be sorry, Si- _Stanford_. I kissed ya back, I knew it was wrong, told myself I shouldn’t but…”

Hal leans forward his other hand resting on the top of Ford’s chair, he’s close enough that Ford can smell the salt on his skin, the sweat dripping down his brow. Ford can even smell the subtle undertone of cologne lingering on Hal’s skin…and to his surprise he smells like Stan, like that one cologne he swears by; Burberry.

Ford stills at this revelation…how on earth had he _not_ noticed that they wore the same cologne? It’s yet another similarity Hal and his brother share, yet another inconsequential detail that he had somehow missed until now.

 He has a type, doesn’t he? He knows that, it’s as apparent as the extra fingers on his own hands. Besides It’s the only explanation for all the coincidental similarities, it’s the only reason for his irrational behaviour, it’s the initial reason he was attracted to him in the first place.

Ford brows furrow and he can feel his palms sweating. “ _But_ …?”

Hal’s looking at him with a white hot intensity that would have Ford shivering if it were not for the temperate climate. Hal’s hand tightens around his own and Ford can feel goose bumps pricking at his skin, trailing up until the hair on the back of his neck is on end.

“You were so goddamn cute, okay? I couldn’t resist ya. I’d been flirting with ya all day, it wasn’t supposed ta mean anythin’ but the way you looked at me…and then that _kiss._ It was too much, too much and not enough, ya know?”

“W-why?” Ford questions, his voice wavering. “Why would you even want to? Why would you even consider kissing me back if you didn’t mean anything by it?”

Hal looks conflicted for a moment, a war raging on his face; it’s almost as if he’s weighing up his next course of action. Suddenly his face goes blank and he sighs, as if defeated, as if he’s somehow lost a war unbeknownst to Ford.

The look on Hal’s face is hard to read, but it speaks of longing barely leashed and Ford cannot comprehend why someone as worldly and amazing as Hal would ever look at him in such a manner. Hal looks like he wants to run away, to detach himself from Ford and jump off starboard bow. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights, his eyes wide at his own actions.

He looks like a moth drawn to a flame, but instead of being cautious of the metaphorical fire licking at his heels he looks like a man possessed, like someone finally giving into what he really wants.

Ford gulps as Hal finally speaks. “You really wanna know why I kissed ya back, huh?” Hal’s hand moves from the back of the chair to cup Ford’s jaw, his thumb gently rubbing Ford’s cleft. Hal’s eyes are dancing flames, warm enough to melt the skin from Ford’s bones, warm enough to nudge at the butterflies stirring in Ford’s belly.

Hal’s eyes are soft and lidded as he readies himself to speak. “I kissed ya ‘cause I couldn’t help myself, okay? You kept lookin’ at me like ya wanted somethin’, like you wanted _me,_ you know how _rare_ that is? If it were anyone else I wouldn’t have given a shit, but _you_?” Hal laughs to himself, self-deprecation evident as well as fondness. “I couldn’t ignore all those shy little looks ya were givin’ me, I couldn’t help flirtin’ with ya a little, you look so fuckin’ cute when flustered Si- Stanford.”

Ford blushes as Hal hisses to himself and runs a hand through his own hair in annoyance. Hal levels Ford with a glance heavy enough to suffocate him and hot enough to start a fire at the base of his stomach. “I kissed you because I like ya, Ford. I like you a heckuva lot, I didn’t mean to, didn’t _want_ to but that’s how I feel and I can’t change that, believe me for as long as I’ve known you I’ve _tried._ ”

Ford’s nostrils flare and his free hand itches to pull Hal closer, to bury his hand in the older man’s blue and black flannel shirt. He resists however and gives an awkward grin, nervousness grabbing at him like a small child. “You make it sound like we’ve know each other for years, a _lifetime_ even.”

Hal laughs, his voice oddly harsh despite his tender touch. “You could say something like that, yeah.” He replies and Ford can immediately feel him shifting, moving away from him and Ford knows it’s to distance himself, to break the tension sparking between them.

Ford’s hand reaches out and wraps itself around Hal’s wrist, Hal shakes his head at the action and at the words surely soon to come. “But the thing is kid, I shouldn’t have kissed ya back; like I said you’re seventeen and I’m in my sixties. Ain’t there anybody your age that you like? Somebody that suits ya a little more?”

The image of Stan leaning against his locker fills his mind immediately and has him gritting his teeth. There is no one better suited to him than Stan, he’s amazing and has always been there for him. He’s everything he’s ever wanted, everything he’s never believed he could have and he knows that Stan doesn’t feel the same way and that he never will.

He may have only realised his feelings for Stan recently, but now that he looks back he knows they had always been there, subtler and less intense but there nonetheless and it weighs on him. His feelings for Stan are ever present and eternal, they’re like an anchor shackled to his ankle dragging him deeper and deeper into his fruitless, fitful longing.

To his surprise, however, Hal appears in his mind’s eye a second later. Hal, in all honesty, has been a short but amazing part of his life for the last few weeks. He’s taught him things, guided him and never once has he truly made fun of him, anything risqué having been light hearted banter and, if Hal’s admissions are correct, _flirting_.

He likes Hal, likes the way he talks to him. It finally feels like he has a friend outside of Stan, a life outside of him. Hal makes him feel appreciated, special, it’s as if he cares about Ford and his opinions. Stan may be better suited for him, but at the same time he is even more unattainable and Ford, as much as he hates to admit he’s…lonely.

Ford can feel an impulsive urge come over him, one he knows he _shouldn’t_ indulge in, one he knows could ruin every inroad they’ve made towards solving this situation. Ford shakes his head and Hal sighs, seemingly having taken that for an answer.

But before Hal can move away from him Ford reaches out and does the exact same thing that put them into this mess in the first place; with a lightening quick hand he grabs a wide eyed Hal by the shirt and kisses him.

At first Hal flounders into the kiss, his hands held aloft as he struggles to decide where to put them or whether or not to simply push Ford away. Ford can feel Hal’s body tensing up next to him and he raises a hand to cup the older man’s stubbled check, hoping to soften him into the kiss.

Ford puts as much passion into the kiss as he can, trying to show Hal just how bright his attraction toward him burns. He replicates every movement that he remembers having elicited a reaction from him the last time they kissed, he even tilts his head to the side to get closer, to make the kiss deeper.

It’s the same kind of kiss he’s seen hundreds of times in the movies his mother and Stanley like to watch during dinner time. It’s the kind of kiss that makes Ford’s knees weak and his heart beat heavy and frantic inside of his chest. He can only hope that Hal’s feeling a similar reaction, that he too can feel the magnetic draw between them, that he can feel the connection bubbling between them.

Ford can feel Hal melting into him, his limbs going loose and his muscles coiled in a way that screams less of indecision and more of restraint. Hal’s hands keep on clenching as if wishing to just _grab_ Ford, as if wishing to wrap themselves around him.

Hal’s heavy breathing echoes in Ford’s ear and merely the sound of it has Ford panting too, face a blazing red and his palms are as sweaty as they’ve ever been he takes this opportunity to move closer until their chests are flush with one another.

But all good things must come to an end, a truth that is so eloquently proven when Ford pulls himself away from the older man to catch his breath. When he moves back in to restart their kiss Hal turns his head away and Ford’s mouth merely connects with Hal’s cheek; Ford may be dense, but he knows an obvious rebuff when he sees one, and this? Is a rejection as bright as day, as clear as crystal. Hal pushes him away gently but firm and looks at him in shock.

Ford can feel the infamous tug of fight or flight yanking at his sternum, he can feel anxiety and fear plucking at his nerves as if they were but an instrument in an orchestra out of his control.

“No.” Hal says with authority as his hands are stretched out in front of him, holding Ford at bay. One of them settles on Ford’s chest silently communicating just how much stronger Hal is than Ford and just how easy it would be to forcibly push him away if Ford were to do anything untoward. “Goddammit, Ford. I told ya _no_.”

Ford raises a hand to grip Hal’s hand currently pressed against his chest, he takes it between his own, weaves their fingers together shyly and smiles wistfully. “Considering you kissed me back again I’d consider that a rather delayed reaction.”

“Don’t get smart with me, I know I fucked up. _I know_.” Hal ruffles his own hair in annoyance, his eyes are a storm as he gets up and paces angrily around the boat. “God fucking _dammit_! This wasn’t supposed to happen, _I_ wasn’t supposed to-” He looks down at his shoes and whispers quietly to himself in a voice full of emotion. “Fuck.”

Ford pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation and he looks at Hal with confusion. “Why are you doing this? You’ve already admitted how you feel about me, that you want me. Why won’t you just, just-”

Hal stops mid step and turns his head to look at him. “Give in, is that what you were gonna say?”

Ford sighs and looks away from Hal, his eyes are fixated on his hands wondering, not for the first time, if they have something to do with Hal’s rejection. “I know you want to, you said so yourself, so why, why won’t you?”

Hal grits his teeth, irritated and Ford can’t tell if it’s at himself or Ford. “You know _why_.”

“Besides my age I mean.” Ford clarifies. “Is it _me_?” Ford questions, his voice full of shame as he looks down at his own hands resting interlocked on the table. “Is it...my hands?”

He wouldn’t be surprised; he’s been ostracized his entire life because them. He’s been called a freak and a monster, he’s been beaten up because of them and he’s spent entire afternoons hiding from Crampelter and his gang just because of the way he was born, more importantly _what_ he was born _with_.

Ford wouldn’t be lying if he said he hated his hands, hated the way people treated him because of them. He hates how different they make him and for all the wrong reasons. When people think Stanford Pines they don’t think of his intellect or his accomplishments, they think about how much of a freak he is and his…deformity.

Hal’s eyes widen at Ford’s words, his face is the picture of surprise and concern. A couple of seconds pass and he looks…angry, this time Ford can read the guilt glinting in his eyes and knows that anger is directed not at Ford or Hal, but at the people in Ford’s life that have made him feel inadequate because of his differences.

He moves closer and sits down next to Ford, despite having tried to put space between them earlier he places a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. Ford shivers at the touch, his body still being…on edge after that kiss, Ford may be intelligent and extremely mature but his body is still privy to the faults of teenage hormones.

 Hal removes his hand to gesture his wild and fervent disagreement. “Jesus fucking Christ _no_!” He shakes his head. “It’s not you, it’s this dumb ass town! Your hands don’t matter to me, okay? They’re a little rare ‘n’ a little different, but so are _you_ and in all the right ways that I _like_ , ya hear me?”

Ford twiddles his fingers absentmindedly and bites his own lip in thought. “I-I know you’ve been casual about my hands in the past...but are you sure they don’t, don’t…”

“Turn me off?” Hal questions, filling in the blanks of Ford’s words as he’s always somehow been able to do, Ford nods at Hal’s wording. “ _Fuck no_. You think somethin’ like that’s gonna put me off? You’re a smart guy, don’t get me wrong but if ya can’t see just how fuckin’ great you are and how fuckin’ _attractive_ that is, boy have I got news for you.”

Ford looks at him stunned, Hal’s constant positive remarks about him are…hard to swallow. He’s not used to being complimented, at least not by someone without ulterior motives. Even his teachers have reasons behind complimenting him and hoping for his success; most of them include making their school seem more prestigious as a result.

The worst part is that Hal’s passionate declaration causes all motor function and reasoning to stall like machinery in need of a good oiling, the worst part is that Hal desperately means every word that he says. Everything about his body language reads that way and even his eyes are sincere about how he regards Ford.

It only serves to make Ford desire him more, for not only _who_ Hal is but for the way he treats him; with care and admiration that he’s unused to. The only person who’s ever been this staunch in his persistent reassurance of Ford’s more admirable qualities is Stan, but that’s no surprise.

“Thank you.” Ford replies sincerely, if a little awkward.

Hal rubs nervously at the back of his neck as if considering his next words, finally he exhales heavily as if trying to calm himself of his earlier anger. “I gotta lot of reasons for why we shouldn’t do… _this_.” He gestures between the two of them. “Most of ‘em personal, ya know? It’s a lot of shit I’d rather not talk about.”

Ford does not in fact know; in actuality he knows very little of Hal’s past or where he comes from. All he knows of Hal’s past is of a love, one he assumes was of a homosexual nature, that Hal still deeply regrets never having reciprocated.

He also knows that Hal came here by accident and stayed merely on whim, or so it seems. The elder man is an enigma…and Ford can admit to himself that Hal’s mysterious nature is in fact part of Hal’s charm; he’s interesting and unlike anyone else in Glass Shard, barring Ford and his brother of course.

“I…understand having things you would rather not discuss.” Ford replies, he may not know much about Hal, but he knows enough to be certain in his affection and attraction towards the man. Ford also knows that he’s keeping secrets too, Hal after all knows nothing of Ford’s…incestuous inclinations.

Hal places a hand delicately inside of his pocket as he looks at Ford with a serious but sincere expression. “You know it’s not that I _don’t_ want ya, Ford.” He shrugs to himself. “But in this shit hole of a town what do ya think will happen if anybody finds out? They’ll run me outta town and that’s if we’re _lucky_ , it’s bad enough being any kind of gay ‘ere but the age difference? Fuck, who knows what’ll happen if it gets out and I don’t want you takin’ flack because of me, ya know?”

Ford blinks at him for a few moments as the gravity of what Hal has just said fully settles inside of his mind. Hal does want him, it’s merely the repercussions of giving in that he fears and even now he’s trying to look out for him. He appreciates it but he’s hardly a child; he knows what he wants, it may seem impulsive, childish even, and perhaps far too optimistic of him but can’t help what he desires.

“Hypothetically speaking…we could keep it a secret, nobody needs to know about us.” Ford proposes. “I-I, it may sound selfish, but I can’t not see you again, not after _this_.” He gestures to the both of them. “And I know we can’t go back to…what we had before I ruined everything, but Hal I think, no I _know_ , I need this. I’ve never had very many friends and…you’ve been a friend to me, more than that in fact and I don’t know what I’d do with myself if my actions ruined that.”

Hal looks pained at Ford’s words, he looks desperately like he wants to reach out and soothe Ford. “Don’t. Don’t say that me, kid, _don’t._ ” He looks at Ford intently. “It’s hard enough as it is sayin’ no to ya, don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

Ford reaches out to grip at the older man’s wrinkled hand, he hopes the other man doesn’t notice just how clammy his hands are, just how nervous he is in this one salient moment. Soft youthful skin meets that of a scarred aged hand as he sandwiches their palms together, he looks at Hal with all the confidence he can muster.

“Please.” He says to Hal and such a word must seem out of character for him because Hal shivers at the sound of his voice, at the way his plea somehow echoes in the room. “I don’t want to have to say goodbye, Hal. Why can’t we try? I-is it so despicable that I would like t-to try to make something out of this, that I would want something between us?”

Hal looks back at him with flashing eyes and an expression that’s mostly a grimace. He clenches his fist and looks like a man fighting a battle he is destined to lose, he closes his eyes in thought and when he next opens them all Ford can do is shiver.

“Goddammit.” Hal says to himself more than to Ford. “You _really_ want this, don’t ya?” Hal questions wistfully, his tone more than a little sad and more than a little astonished at the prospect.

Ford can’t believe the wonder in Hal’s voice, he can’t believe that Hal wants him, _really_ wants him. The knowledge of Hal’s longing, of his attraction to Ford, fills him with a warmth he never expected to feel. Ford nods at his question and hopes that maybe Hal will reconsider, that the more they discuss this and the more Hal knows of Ford’s desires that he’ll disregard his fears and try to cultivate the chemistry they so clearly have.

Hal curses to himself, hissing as if scolded by the heat between them. “Fuck, I never thought you’d-” He cuts himself and threads a rough hand through his own long hair. “ _Jesus_ , I’d hoped way back when but I never thought I’d ever get to have you, ya know?

Ford blinks in confusion at his wording, Hal’s words imply a greater amount of time than they’ve experienced, but knowing Ford’s own lack of social skills he could easily be misreading and misinterpreting the elder’s meaning.

Ford gulps to himself, he can already feel his ears turning red for what he is about to say. “You can, you know.”

 He takes the hand encased in his and holds it against his chest, saying in action what his words cannot. “H-have me I mean. I know we haven’t known each other long, but I understand how you feel, or at least I think I do. We go well together, somehow, someway it almost feels like we’ve known each other our entire lives.”

Ford looks him squarely in the eyes, mustering up as much courage as he can. “I want you to know that I’m okay with whatever you decide, even if it turns out you don’t really want me, that it’s not worth the risk. I trust you to make the right decision.”

Hal glances down at their hands and back up at Ford, his mouth is open in shock, gaping wide as if Ford has dealt him a heavy blow, as if Ford’s words are fatal in and of themselves. He looks worn to the bone, as if restraining himself is a torture unlike anything Ford has ever known and Ford cannot help but wonder, why? Why does Hal want him so much?

Ford must look vulnerable for Hal’s expression shifts and changes, for once he looks resolute and sure, as if finally coming to an indisputable conclusion and to Ford's surprise Hal looks exactly like Stan does when he’s about to make an impulsive decision. He growls to himself two words Ford had never thought he’d hear. _“Fuck it.”_

Hal moves forward quicker than a falling meteorite. His hand presses against Ford’s chest as he slams their mouths together like Ford’s lips hold the secret to the universe, or perhaps something else not quite as trite.

Hal’s lips are insistent against his and Ford can feel him shifting closer to him until their chests are flush with one another. Hal’s hand comes up to cup Ford’s jaw, angling him for a deeper touch, a headier kiss.

Ford moans when he feels Hal’s tongue entwine with his own. The older man tastes like beer and the barest hint of something sweet, it’s the kind of sweetness that has Ford searching Hal’s mouth, that has him chasing Hal’s tongue with his own.

Hal is close enough that he can smell the sweat dripping drown his brow, that he can smell the scent of his cologne lingering in the air. He’s close enough that Ford can see the delicate dusting of freckles too light to see normally, as odd as it sounds given their age difference Hal is…attractive, _cute_ even.

Hal’s lips are firm against his and his hand is rough as he brings him into his orbit, as he’s pulled tightly against him. Ford rests a hand atop his shoulder as Hal lets go of his hand to weave his fingers through Ford’s locks.

Ford groans into Hal’s mouth as the older man’s leg manoeuvres itself in between Ford’s, his knee pushing against his crotch in a way that has him panting into Hal’s mouth. He breaks the kiss to pant heavily against Hal, he presses their foreheads together and he locks gazes with Hal and grins bashfully. “That was, that was-”

“A bad idea?” Hal laughs, his voice is rough as his hot breath blows against Ford’s skin. He’s close enough for Ford to see the gold flecks hiding within the brown of his eyes.

Ford chuckles in response. “One of your better ones I hope?” He runs a hand up and down Hal’s arm and smiles to himself. “It’s most certainly one of mine.”

Hal groans to himself. “I’m gonna regret this tomorrow, I can practically smell it, ya know?”

Ford leans forward to kiss Hal again, to stop the elder man before he can continue that train of thought, before he can reconsider what they’re doing and end it.

They kiss back and forth for a couple of minutes, mouths sealed together as they angle for a better kiss, their tongues dance as they caress one another in tandem. Hal bites Ford’s lip hard enough to leave Ford gasping and questioning what kind of fresh depravity has he found himself attracted to this time.

This time when they break the kiss Ford rests his head in the crook of Hal’s neck, he pants heavily as he tries to catch his breath. Ford can feel Hal’s heart beating against his skin as his breathing returns to some semblance of normal, to Ford’s continuous surprise Hal’s heart is pounding at a fast pace that has Ford’s own heart itching to match it.

Hal’s breathing is laboured as he tips his head back to centre himself, his Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps down air as quick as he can. Seeing an opportunity Ford experimentally nibbles at the strip of skin presented to him, Hal groans and Ford takes that as permission to continue his assault.

Sloppily he kisses at Hal’s neck, he knows his lack of experience is painfully obvious but he does his best to suck reddened marks onto Hal’s skin. When he next sits up straight Hal’s neck is covered in hickeys, most of them no darker than a dull burgundy.

“We should move this somewhere less-” Ford gestures to the room around them. “-cluttered, I’d, _ah_ , rather not be intimate atop the kitchen table if it can be helped.”

Hal laughs loudly, his chuckles somehow echoing around them. “And I thought romance was dead.” He remarks with a grin as he untangles the two of them.

Ford smiles in response, enjoying the easy banter between them; this is exactly what he had feared he would lose. “Romance, _dead_?” Ford questions. “I like to believe it’s more…maimed than fatally wounded.”

Hal’s eyes go soft and he punches Ford lightly in the arm. “You’re a better man than I am, kid.”

Ford rolls his eyes at the use of ‘kid’, but this time he doesn’t mind it; this time it isn’t an example of Hal trying to distance himself, nor is it meant as a way of treating him as a child. It’s merely a nickname that’s he’s come to accept now, there’s no use in fighting the inevitable after all.

Hal gets up from their seat and stretches if only to work out the kinks in his back, Ford almost grimaces as he hears a crack emanating from his partner. Hal moans to himself. “Fuck, that’s much better.”

Sometimes he forgets that their age difference is significant and that Hal is perhaps even older than his father, it’s easy to do so when he connects so effortlessly with the older man that age barely seems a barrier.

Ford opens his mouth to speak, to ask if Hal is okay but he’s interrupted by Hal stretching out a hand towards him. “Ya comin’ or not?” He asks with a smirk. “Or do I gotta seduce you this time ‘round?”

Ford shakes his head simply and grabs the other man’s hand and is quickly pulled to his feet. “Next time perhaps.” Ford replies as he follows Hal’s lead into the bedroom.

Hal goes ahead of him and holds the door open for Ford like the gentleman Ford knows he would claim otherwise of being. The first thing that strikes Ford about the bedroom is just how sparse it is, for some reason Ford had been expecting something more…homely.

Hal manoeuvres him towards the bed and before Ford can comment on the room’s lack of personal effects, or question what exactly the older man intends to do, he’s being pushed atop the navy blue covers.

He gasps on impact and feels almost winded as his back hits the mattress. Hal looms over him with heated eyes as he works on taking Ford’s shoes off. “You don’t have to take off my clothes, Hal.”

Hal pauses and glances up at him, an elegant eyebrow is raised as his hand rests at the heel of Ford’s worn down shoe. “I keep screwing up, heck I screwed up saying no to this whole thing, but _this_?” He gestures to his attempts to undress Ford. “This I can do and pretty damn _well_ too, if ya get what I mean.” He continues with a wink that he doesn’t even have the decency to mask with some semblance delicacy.

But there is no delicacy here, save for the gentle care Hal handles him with. Ford lays there contemplating just how he convinced this man to consider him equal and worthy enough to take him to bed, especially with the promise of something heated lying between them.

Ford knows logically that Hal finds him attractive and would continue to do so without the barrier that his clothes provide, but somehow he still feels inadequate.

He’s never been undressed around someone who wasn’t related to him by blood and, in truth, he’d never expected that he would get the chance to do this with anyone; his attraction to Stan being a constant reminder of the impossibilities presented to him.

Ford chuckles to himself, a ball of nervous energy as Hal takes off his shoes and deposits them at the base of the bed. Whilst Hal does that Ford reaches forward, his fingers shake and fumble with the buttons of Hal’s flannel shirt and he feels dumb with arousal and hormones despite nothing of true substance having happened, discounting their kiss of course.

The shirt opens and the first thing that catches his eye is the hair dotting Hal’s shoulders; an unusual sight if one ever saw it. What he notices next are the numerous scars, most of them long since faded, dotting his partner’s skin.

He looks down at them worryingly and brushes a gentle finger across them as Hal finishes up on his feet and moves…upwards in his attentions. Ford tries his best to ignore the hands divesting him of his clothing, it’s easier said than done but staring at the myriad of scars lining the man’s body helps.

The most prominent scars catch his attention; the one near his left elbow grabs his notice and he wonders about the precise story behind it. Maybe someday he’ll be able to unravel enough of Hal’s inherent mystery as to know the story behind every scar that marks his skin.

What truly steals his attention and more importantly his breath is the marking on Hal’s shoulder. It’s a dark blue and Ford can’t tell precisely if it’s a tattoo or some kind of burn, he scans the surrounding skin thoroughly as he angles over Hal to get a better look.

Sure enough the nature of the symbol becomes clear as he gazes at the tissue around the mark, it’s faded and long since healed but the nearby skin is damaged too. Ford knows very little about burn marks, or better yet _branding_ , of this nature.

Ford winces as he imagines the pain that experiencing such a branding would feel like. His hand hovers over the brand and Hal must sense his indecision for he stops what he’s doing to smile softly, roll his eyes and move Ford’s hand until he’s palm is flush enough with the scar than he can feel the indentation of it on Hal’s skin.

“You don’t have to tell me, but _how_ did you...?”

“Get it?” Hal finishes for him. “It’s one heckuva story, let me tell ya but long story short I had a bad reunion with my…brother. I’m gonna spare ya the gory details, but here’s a piece of advice on the house; it’s usually not a good idea to fight in a cramped space with lots of weird tech, tools and shit, it’s a one-way ticket to burn central, kid.”

Ford grimaces and can only imagine how horrible it is to fight with one’s brother. Luckily for him, him and Stan have rarely fought; they’ve always shared this special wave length that nobody could ever hope to compete with and every time they have fought they’d resolved each conflict swiftly.

 Despite some of Ford’s issues with their relationship, or the lack of it as his heart would no doubt complain, Ford could never imagine being that badly estranged from his brother. The mere idea is simply preposterous.

Impulsively and in a manner perhaps too intimate Ford presses himself forward and kisses Hal’s brand. His lips make contact with Hal’s skin and he can feel the older man shivering at his touch, when he removes his lips and glances back up Hal looks shocked in response.

Ford gazes at him and readies himself to speak, to express sympathy for Hal, to comfort him in all the limited and, most assuredly, awkward ways he knows how. But Hal stops him with a kiss that has him pinned to the mattress, and writhing, as a hand yanks off his pants in one swift movement before burying itself under the waistband of his boxers.

He gasps into the kiss as he feels himself twitch in Hal’s grip, with a rapidly decreasing amount of brains cells Ford briefly wonders if there isn’t a subject in which Hal isn’t somehow adept, sexual or otherwise.

Hal bites Ford’s lip, pumps his fist quick enough to have Ford keening and breaks their kiss to speak. “But enough about me, Ford.” He pauses to brush a tantalising thumb against the head of Ford’s cock. “I think it’s about time we got down to business, huh?”

Ford’s fists clench and ball into the wrinkled bed sheets as the sound of Hal’s deep voice fraying at the edges washes over him. Hal’s voice, to Ford’s ears, almost makes it seem as if every moment he isn’t ravaging Ford is taking an immense amount of self-control, but Ford can empathise. At the very least Ford knows it’s taking _him_ an immense amount of self-control to stop himself from grabbing at any piece he can of Hal to speed this whole experience up.

But he wants this moment, however fleeting in the grand scheme of their acquaintance, to last, despite all the needlessly _teenage_ things his body is telling him to do and to want.

He looks around the room briefly, wondering and hoping that Hal is as educated as his easy confidence would suggest. Inside he balks a little at the obvious lack of lubricant; he’s read up on sex of the homosexual variety, his reading has been as extensive as someone trying to be discreet can make it. But he knows enough for his knowledge to be of significant use.

He knows that if they are…to continue this, to follow it through to its natural conclusion, that preparation will be necessary. “S-should I turn over? I-I mean I assume you’re going to be, ah, doing the penetrating but-” Hal’s grip suddenly tightens and his expression grows firm.

“I’m not fuckin’ you.” Hal says, voice as serious as a heart attack but twice as deadly.

Ford shivers as the grip eases and Hal gives him a few apologetic strokes. “A-are you sure? I could always prepare myself…if you have enough lubricant that is.”

“ _No_ , kid.” Hal says firmly even as his fist works Ford’s cock ruthlessly enough to be considered vicious if Ford didn’t enjoy it so. “I’m not fuckin’ you, end of discussion. Ya gotta learn to walk before you can run, and no fuckin’ way am I gonna give you the crash course on anal when I’ve got like the lube equivalent of _gravel_.”

“But-” Ford tries to interject, but Hal stills his hand and he levels him with a look far too similar to the one that his mother gives him when scolding him and his brother for him to even attempt to argue.

“There’s always next time, kid.” Hal replies and Ford can barely breathe.

There’s going to be a next time. There’s going to be a _next time_ , and he can scarcely believe it! He’d never thought Hal would want to do this with him _once_ , let alone a second time.

“But for now?” Hal begins. “I’m gonna rock your nerdy little world.” He pledges and before Ford can question how, or even egg him on, Hal is rearranging them.

Ford is being pushed further upwards until his back is resting against the head board and Hal? Hal is kneeling down and his expression is the picture of determination as he maps out a plan of attack. His back is bent and his eyelashes are fluttering as he spares Ford one last heated glance before going down on him, his mouth wrapping around Ford’s cock wet and as warm as the inside of a volcano.

Ford curses his own lack of control as the inevitable happens; his hips stutter and he ends up thrusting none to gently into Hal’s mouth. “I-I’m sorry, Hal-” He begins but immediately stops himself when he takes note of the heat dancing in the older man’s eyes.

He’s…enjoying this, even Ford’s impotent lack of control is igniting a flame within Hal and he shudders as this knowledge fills him with enough confidence to let himself enjoy this, to let himself turn his own brain off if only for a moment.

Ford curses underneath his breath as Hal somehow takes more of him inside of his throat. The heat is intense and thrilling all at once, his throat is a moist vice around him and he can’t help the small thrusts his hips seem to be instinctively making.

Hal seems to be enjoying himself too, Ford notes as he sees Hal’s hand pulling down his own fly and burying itself inside of his slacks as he felates Ford. He’s breathing through his nose as he slides down far enough for his nose to be buried in the mess that is Ford’s pubic hair. Ford images it would be a disgusting experience to behold, if it weren’t insanely hot.

 Ford groans and struggles not to bury his hands inside of the man’s thinning grey hair. He doesn’t want to demand too much of Hal, he’s already drawn boundaries and made concessions; he’s already given in to Ford’s desires.

Being as selfish as he knows he wants to be would be going too far, might be too much for his partner and the last thing he wants is for this to stop. The last thing he wants is for Hal to realise that he could do so much better than Ford.

 He’s like Stan in that regard, better than him and twice as likeable. He has a personality as charming as the sun is bright and he hates himself for how much he desires Hal, and for how much of that desire is based on the irrevocable similarities between Hal and his brother.

But Hal seems to read his mind, it’s almost supernatural how well this man knows his mind despite having known him a few short weeks, and pauses in his attentions to grab Ford’s hands.

He rubs at them affectionately for a moment before depositing them in his hair, this gesture is an unspoken agreement, an unspoken yes to the questions Ford had been too nervous to even consider asking.

Using Hal’s hair as leverage he grabs a hold of him and starts shallowing thrusting inside of the other man’s mouth. Every movement of his hips has him gasping, every thrust has him disappearing between Hal’s lips and he’s almost incoherent with pleasure as he muffles his moans into a nearby pillow.

As Hal twirls a tongue around the head of his cock he can hear the slick, wet noises of Hal jerking himself off in tandem. The noise is an erotic symphony that has his eyes closing, toes curling and his dick twitching as he hears Hal’s pace pick up.

Ford thrusts hard enough to feel Hal’s throat constricting in protest and he pulls back, a quick ‘sorry’ on the tip of his tongue but Hal merely says nothing and grabs him by the hips. It isn’t long before Hal is moving him, making him fuck his mouth with abandon; it’s almost as if Ford has all, and somehow _none_ , of the control simultaneously all at once.

Ford’s eyes open to look down at Hal and he’s struck by the primal nature of sex, but also by how intense Hal looks. He looks almost crazed as he forces his throat to accommodate Ford’s member, he looks as if he’s been waiting decades for the chance to devour Ford whole, as if he’s been waiting decades for the chance to have Ford in his bed. Or against any kind of horizontal service for that matter.

 He may not understand the reasoning behind the hurricane twisting inside of Hal’s mind and the blazing heat burning within his dilated eyes, but he does understand the raw electricity between them. He understands that Hal wants this, that _they_ both want this, and it’s this knowledge that has Ford gripping Hal’s hair hard enough to hurt and thrusting roughly into Hal’s mouth.

He can feel Hal’s throat struggling, but he can also see the approval flashing in the other man’s eyes and so he knows it’s okay when he forces Hal’s head down further, until his jaw is brushing against Ford’s balls. He can feel each puff of air through Hal’s nose as he fucks Hal’s face with more enthusiasm than most people, especially Stan, would accuse him of having.

He can feel the pressure building in his lower abdomen as Hal sits up and breaks his mouth away long enough to tongue at the slit of his cock. Ford practically bites through his bottom lip as Hal blows a gust of warm breath against the reddened skin of Ford’s member, but before Ford gets a chance to complain Hal is poking at the slit and lapping at the pre-come leaking and beading at the top.

“Fuck.” Ford groans as Hal’s hand wraps around the base of his cock again and pumps him a few times just to wring out the beads of pre-come that his cock his drooling at a quickening pace.

“Please.” He says as Hal sucks and devours every drop, as he licks at the bulging veins of Ford’s cock. Ford barely restrains himself from coming when Hal’s hand moves from the base of his cock to squeeze his balls lightly. “Please.”

Hal smirks, of course the playful older man wouldn’t make this easy on Ford. “Please _what_ , kid? Ya want somethin’ you gotta ask for it; you said you were a man, remember? And a real man? Oh a _real man_ begs with _style_ , kid.”

Ford is many things, he knows that and he has never claimed to be a saint, but if there’s one thing that Ford suffers from most, if there’s one fatal flaw that he possesses…he would be reluctant, but truthful, in admitting to his more prideful nature.

He can feel his pride rankling at this, ready to protest at the mere idea of it, but the rest of him? The rest of him is beyond turned on, the rest of him doesn’t mind begging; not for Stan, never for Stan, and now? Hal is also a part of that list, and so he opens his mouth to say four words he had never expected he would.

“Please suck me, Hal.” He pants heavily to himself, his breath heavy as he spreads his legs wider despite the embarrassment causing a blush to spread across his face. “Please suck me.”

His words have the desired reaction as Hal gasps to himself and the hand working Hal’s own cock gets inexplicably faster. “ _Fuck_.” He says to himself as he looks at Ford with hot, reverent eyes. “Fuck, you’re so fucking sexy, Si- _Stanford._ ” He continues before leaning down and taking him deep inside of his mouth again.

It doesn’t take much longer though, Ford having already been at the edge, before Ford’s eyes slide shut and a scorching, toe curling, thigh trembling orgasm overtakes him. His hands are white knuckling on Hal’s hair as he jerks his hips a few more times, as he slams himself deep enough inside of Hal’s throat that the only option Hal has is to swallow.

To Hal’s credit he rhythmically squeezes at Ford’s testicles, milking him for all he’s worth as he laps at errant spots of semen splattered across Ford’s own abdomen.

Ford basks in his afterglow for a minute, but his eyes slowly flutter open as Hal’s cut off moans fill the air. Ford sits up and places a hand on Hal’s shoulder. “Let me help.” He says as he reaches a nervous hand down to grip at Hal’s leaking cock.

Ford feels his spent dick twitch as he engulfs the older man’s member in his fist. The feeling of it resting against his palm is erotic in a way he has no words to describe, it’s warm, undeniably so as he gives a few experimental pumps.

“I-is this okay?” He asks, a tad more anxious than he had been a few minutes ago with his cock thrust firmly between Hal’s lips.

“Fuck yes.” Hal replies as he thrusts gently into Ford’s grip. “Fuck, Ford, your hands feel so _good_.”

He blushes at the praise…he’s not used to complaints, especially any regarding his hands, but instead of feeling agitated he feels warmed as if he’s finally found a _use_ for the wretched things. It’s a lewd thought, he realises, but where have his sensibilities been the whole day? Certainly not here and like hell he’s going to let them get in the way now, not when he has Hal groaning into his shoulder, his teeth brushing against his neck as he pants and pushes into the closed ring of Ford’s fist.

Hal’s pre-ejaculate wets the inside of Ford’s hand and he can’t help but to shiver at the sensation of Hal using his hand for his pleasure. Perhaps if he weren’t tired from a day of school, several long conversations and one spectacular orgasm he’d already be getting hard again.

Ford brushes a soft thumb against the tip of Hal’s cock and that seems to be the final straw for Hal grunts like a wounded animal and bites down into the juncture of Ford’s neck as his dick twitches hard enough to register on Richter scale, he comes into Ford’s fist and falls limp against him like a ragdoll.

Ford takes a moment to collect himself as he rearranges them until they’re, he wouldn’t call it cuddling, sandwiched together on the bed like a pair of teenagers after prom night. Not that he would know, of course, but it is one of the few things he has gleamed from popular culture from watching many of the movies that Stan likes to deem ‘educational for _real_ life’.

Hal turns away from their impromptu spooning to look at him with a mixture of happiness and a wistful kind of sadness that Ford can’t help but to wonder about. Hal shakes his head to himself and laughs a little weakly, his voice hoarse from their rougher play, Ford would be lying if he said he didn’t find it attractive.    

“I can’t believe we did this, _damn._ ” Hal remarks, voice odd as he ruffles his long, grey hair.

Ford smile sheepishly in response. “Well, I’d _hoped_ we would, but it hadn’t been my intention when I came here. I had hoped to salvage what we had…not to add a new element entirely to it!”

“No like I mean I _really_ can’t believe we did this!” Hal exclaims, looking slightly more panicked second by second. “Fuck, _fuck_ _I screwed up_.”

Ford blinks in surprise at Hal’s freaked out reaction. “It wasn’t anything I didn’t want, I assure you.”

“Ugh!” Hal groans as he throws the covers back and paces the floor of the boat’s bedroom. “And I told your brother I wasn’t out for ya ass. I can’t be-fucking-lieve how much I screwed the pooch on this!”

Ford’s eyes widen in surprise as he takes in this new information…he never told Hal he had a brother. “Wait.” Ford begins. “How do you know about my brother and-” His eyes narrow as Hal’s words fully sink in and he crosses his arms over his chest when next he speaks. “-more importantly what _exactly_ did he say to you?”

Hal immediately stops pacing and stands stock still in place as he gazes at Ford with a guilty expression that says more than words ever could. “Nothin’!” He cries. “Ya know we were just shooting the breeze, that’s all. He definitely didn’t try and punch me in the face or anything!”

Ford immediately sees red. “He tried to _punch you in the face_?!” He shouts, angrier than he can ever remember being. “I-I _told_ him to leave you alone!”

“He was worried about ya, he probably thought he was doing the right thing trying to warn me off-”

Ford growls to himself. “He tried to warn you off? Goddammit _Stanley_!”

Hal flinches at the sound of Ford’s brother’s name and Ford knows it’s unfair to react like this, to get this angry after their love making but he can’t help it. He’d told Stan to leave Hal alone, that this thing between the two of them was none of Stan’s business and that he would resolve any problems of his own making.

He’s, he’s just _so angry_ that Stan went over his head, that he tried to scare off the only friend he has outside of him. It’s just so _classic Stan_ , isn’t it? He’s never been allowed to have anything outside of him, Stan been this, this _suffocating_ presence stealing all of his attention and stopping him from pursuing interests outside of him.

He gets up from the bed angrily, grabbing his clothes and putting them on quicker than they had come off. “I can’t believe he would do this!” He remarks to himself in irritation. “No, no wait, I _can_ , of course I can; it’s _Stan._ ”

Hal moves across the other side of the bed and place a hand on top of Ford’s shoulder. “Kid, calm down-”

Ford shrugs off his hand, moves away from Hal and grabs his shoes from where they’d been deposited earlier that day. He’s too angry to listen, too angry to _think_ even, all Ford knows is the blinding intensity that is his fury. “I’m sorry, Hal, but I have to go.”

Hal looks at him with concern, his hand is stretched out in front of him like all he wants to do is reach out and touch Ford, but he shakes his head and lets his hand drop without a single word.

Ford spares Hal one final glance before grabbing his things, downing the rest of his, now flat, beer and leaving the boat to confront his brother Stanley.


End file.
